{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:fragments",
  "slug": "fragments",
  "title": "Fragments",
  "subtitle": "Short letters, fragments, and occasional pieces.",
  "excerpt": "A collection of short letters and fragments — on clover, on the Clover Club, and on various occasional themes.",
  "year": 1895,
  "volume": 12,
  "category": "Essay",
  "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/fragments/",
  "wordCount": 3422,
  "body": "Clover\n  • A letter written to Col. Thomas Donaldson, of Philadelphia,\n    declining an invitation to be a guest of the Clover Club of\n    that city.\n\nI regret that I cannot be \"in clover\" with you on the 28th instant.\n\nA wonderful thing is clover! It means honey and cream,—that is to say,\nindustry and contentment,—that is to say, the happy bees in perfumed\nfields, and at the cottage gate \"bos\" the bountiful serenely chewing\nsatisfaction's cud, in that blessed twilight pause that like a\nbenediction falls between all toil and sleep.\n\nThis clover makes me dream of happy hours; of childhood's rosy cheeks;\nof dimpled babes; of wholesome, loving wives; of honest men; of springs\nand brooks and violets and all there is of stainless joy in peaceful\nhuman life.\n\nA wonderful word is \"clover\"! Drop the \"c,\" and you have the happiest\nof mankind. Drop the \"r,\" and \"c,\" and you have left the only thing that\nmakes a heaven of this dull and barren earth. Drop the \"r,\" and there\nremains a warm, deceitful bud that sweetens breath and keeps the peace\nin countless homes whose masters frequent clubs. After all, Bottom was\nright:\n\n\"Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.\"\n\nYours sincerely and regretfully,\n\nR. G. Ingersoll\n\nWashington, D. C., January 16, 1883.\n\n***\n\nSUPERSTITION puts belief above goodness—credulity above virtue.\n\nHere are two men. One is industrious, frugal, honest, generous. He has\na happy home—loves his wife and children—fills their lives with\nsunshine. He enjoys study, thoughts, music, and all the subtleties of\nArt—but he does not believe the creed—cares nothing for sacred books,\nworships no god and fears no devil.\n\nThe other is ignorant, coarse, brutal, beats his wife and children—but\nhe believes—regards the Bible as inspired—bows to the priests, counts\nhis beads, says his prayers, confesses and contributes, and the Catholic\nChurch declares and the Protestant Churches declare that he is the\nbetter man.\n\nThe ignorant believer, coarse and brutal as he is, is going to heaven.\nHe will be washed in the blood of the Lamb. He will have wings—a harp\nand a halo.\n\nThe intelligent and generous man who loves his fellow-men—who develops\nhis brain, who enjoys the beautiful, is going to hell—to the eternal\nprison.\n\nSuch is the justice of God—the mercy of Christ.\n  • WHILE reading the accounts of the coronation of the Czar, of the\npageants, processions and feasts, of the pomp and parade, of the\nbarbaric splendor, of cloth of gold and glittering gems, I could not\nhelp thinking of the poor and melancholy peasants, of the toiling,\nhalf-fed millions, of the sad and ignorant multitudes who belong body\nand soul to this Czar.\n\nI thought of the backs that have been scarred by the knout, of the\nthousands in prisons for having dared to say a whispered word for\nfreedom, of the great multitude who had been driven like cattle along\nthe weary roads that lead to the hell of Siberia.\n\nThe cannon at Moscow were not loud enough, nor the clang of the bells,\nnor the blare of the trumpets, to drown the groans of the captives.\n\nI thought of the fathers that had been torn from wives and children for\nthe crime of speaking like men.\n\nAnd when the priests spoke of the Czar as the \"God-selected man,\" the\n\"God-adorned man,\" my blood grew warm.\n\nWhen I read of the coronation of the Czarina I thought of Siberia. I\nthought of girls working in the mines, hauling ore from the pits with\nchains about their waists; young girls, almost naked, at the mercy\nof brutal officials; young girls weeping and moaning their lives away\nbecause between their pure lips the word Liberty had burst into blossom.\n\nYet law neglects, forgets them, and crowns the Czarina. The injustice,\nthe agony and horror in this poor world are enough to make mankind\ninsane.\n\nIgnorance and superstition crown impudence and tyranny. Millions of\nmoney squandered for the humiliation of man, to dishonor the people.\n\nBack of the coronation, back of all the ceremonies, back of all the\nhypocrisy there is nothing but a lie.\n\nIt is not true that God \"selected\" this Czar to rule and rob a hundred\nmillions of human beings.\n\nIt is all an ignorant, barbaric, superstitious lie—a lie that pomp and\npageant, and flaunting flags, and robed priests, and swinging censers,\ncannot change to truth.\n\nThose who are not blinded by the glare and glitter at Moscow see\nmillions of homes on which the shadows fall; see millions of weeping\nmothers, whose children have been stolen by the Czar; see thousands of\nvillages without schools, millions of houses without books, millions and\nmillions of men, women and children in whose future there is no star and\nwhose only friend is death.\n\nThe coronation is an insult to the nineteenth century.\n\nLong live the people of Russia!\n  • MUSIC.—The savage enjoys noises—explosion—the imitation of thunder.\nThis noise expresses his feeling. He enjoys concussion. His ear and\nbrain are in harmony. So, he takes cognizance of but few colors. The\nneutral tints make no impression on his eyes. He appreciates the flames\nof red and yellow. That is to say, there is a harmony between his brain\nand eye. As he advances, develops, progresses, his ear catches other\nsounds, his eye other colors. He becomes a complex being, and there has\nentered into his mind the idea of proportion. The music of the drum no\nlonger satisfies him. He sees that there is as much difference between\nnoises and melodies as between stones and statues. The strings in\nCorti's Harp become sensitive and possibly new ones are developed.\n\nThe eye keeps pace with the ear, and the worlds of sound and sight\nincrease from age to age.\n\nThe first idea of music is the keeping of time—a recurring emphasis at\nintervals of equal length or duration. This is afterward modified—the\nmusic of joy being fast, the emphasis at short intervals, and that of\nsorrow slow.\n\nAfter all, this music of time corresponds to the action of the blood and\nmuscles. There is a rise and fall under excitement of both. In joy the\nheart beats fast, and the music corresponding to such emotion is quick.\nIn grief—in sadness, the blood is delayed. In music the broad division\nis one of time. In language, words of joy are born of light—that which\nshines—words of grief of darkness and gloom. There is still another\ndivision: The language of happiness comes also from heat, and that of\nsadness from cold.\n\nThese ideas or divisions are universal. In all art are the light and\nshadow—the heat and cold.\n  • OF COURSE ENGLAND has no love for America. By England I mean the\ngoverning class. Why should monarchy be in love with republicanism, with\ndemocracy? The monarch insists that he gets his right to rule from\nwhat he is pleased to call the will of God, whereas in a republic the\nsovereign authority is the will of the people. It is impossible that\nthere should be any real friendship between the two forms of government.\n\nWe must, however, remember one thing, and that is, that there is an\nEngland within England—an England that does not belong to the titled\nclasses—an England that has not been bribed or demoralized by those\nin authority; and that England has always been our friend, because that\nEngland is the friend of liberty and of progress everywhere. But the\nlackeys, the snobs, the flatterers of the titled, those who are willing\nto crawl that they may rise, are now and always have been the enemies of\nthe great Republic.\n\nIt is a curious fact that in monarchical governments the highest\nand lowest are generally friends. There may be a foundation for this\nfriendship in the fact that both are parasites—both live on the labor\nof honest men. After all, there is a kinship between the prince and the\npauper. Both extend the hand for alms, and the fact that one is jeweled\nand the other extremely dirty makes no difference in principle—and the\nowners of these hands have always been fast friends, and, in accordance\nwith the great law of ingratitude, both have held in contempt the people\nwho supported them.\n\nOne thing we must not forget, and that is that the best people of\nEngland are our friends. The best writers, the best thinkers are on our\nside. It is only natural that all who visit America should find some\nfault. We find fault ourselves, and to be thin-skinned is almost a plea\nof guilty. For my part, I have no doubt about the future of America.\nIt not only is, but is to be for many, many generations, the greatest\nnation of the world.\n\nI DO not care so much where, as with whom, I live. If the right folks\nare with me I can manage to get a good deal of happiness in the city or\nin the country. Cats love places and become attached to chimney-corners\nand all sorts of nooks—but I have but little of the cat in me, and\nam not particularly in love with places. After all, a palace without\naffection is a poor hovel, and the meanest hut with love in it is a\npalace for the soul.\n\nIf the time comes when poverty and want cease for the most part to\nexist, then the city will be far better than the country. People\nare always talking about the beauties of nature and the delights of\nsolitude, but to me some people are more interesting than rocks and\ntrees. As to city and country life I think that I substantially agree\nwith Touchstone:\n\n\"In respect that it is solitary I like it very well; but in respect\nthat it is private it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the\nfields it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court it is\ntedious.\"\n  • WHAT do I think of the lynchings in Georgia?\n\nI suppose these outrages—these frightful crimes—make the same\nimpression on my mind that they do on the minds of all civilized\npeople. I know of no words strong enough, bitter enough, to express my\nindignation and horror. Men who belong to the \"superior\" race take a\nnegro—a criminal, a supposed murderer, one alleged to have assaulted a\nwhite woman—chain him to a tree, saturate his clothing with kerosene,\npile fagots about his feet. This is the preparation for the festival.\nThe people flock in from the neighborhood—come in special trains from\nthe towns. They are going to enjoy themselves.\n\nLaughing and cursing they gather about the victim. A man steps from the\ncrowd—a man who hates crime and loves virtue. He draws his knife, and\nin a spirit of merry sport cuts off one of the victim's ears. This he\nkeeps for a trophy—a souvenir. Another gentlemen fond of a jest cuts\noff the other ear. Another cuts off the nose of the chained and\nhelpless wretch. The victim suffered in silence. He uttered no groan, no\nword—the one man of the two thousand who had courage.\n\nOther white heroes cut and slashed his flesh. The crowd cheered. The\npeople were intoxicated with joy. Then the fagots were lighted and the\nbleeding and mutilated man was clothed in flame.\n\nThe people were wild with hideous delight. With greedy eyes they watched\nhim burn; with hungry ears they listened for his shrieks—for the music\nof his moans and cries. He did not shriek. The festival was not quite\nperfect.\n\nBut they had their revenge. They trampled on the charred and burning\ncorpse. They divided among themselves the broken bones. They wanted\nmementos—keepsakes that they could give to their loving wives and\ngentle babes.\n\nThese horrors were perpetrated in the name of justice. The savages who\ndid these things belong to the superior race. They are citizens of the\ngreat Republic. And yet, it does not seem possible that such fiends are\nhuman beings. They are a disgrace to our country, our century and the\nhuman race.\n\nEx-Governor Atkinson protested against this savagery. He was threatened\nwith death. The good people were helpless. While these lynchers murder\nthe blacks they will destroy their own country. No civilized man wishes\nto live where the mob is supreme. He does not wish to be governed by\nmurderers.\n\nLet me say that what I have said is flattery compared with what I feel.\nWhen I think of the other lynching—of the poor man mutilated and hanged\nwithout the slightest evidence, of the negro who said that these murders\nwould be avenged, and who was brutally murdered for the utterance of a\nnatural feeling—I am utterly at a loss for words.\n\nAre the white people insane? Has mercy fled to beasts? Has the United\nStates no power to protect a citizen? A nation that cannot or will not\nprotect its citizens in time of peace has no right to ask its citizens\nto protect it in time of War.\n  • OUR COUNTRY.—Our country is all we hope for—all we are. It is the\ngrave of our father, of our mother, of each and every one of the sacred\ndead.\n\nIt is every glorious memory of our race. Every heroic deed. Every act of\nself-sacrifice done by our blood. It is all the accomplishments of the\npast—all the wise things said—all the kind things done—all the poems\nwritten and all the poems lived—all the defeats sustained—all the\nvictories won—the girls we love—the wives we adore—the children we\ncarry in our hearts—all the firesides of home—all the quiet springs,\nthe babbling brooks, the rushing rivers, the mountains, plains and\nwoods—the dells and dales and vines and vales.\n  • GIFT GIVING.—I believe in the festival called Christmas—not in the\ncelebration of the birth of any man, but to celebrate the triumph of\nlight over darkness—the victory of the sun.\n\nI believe in giving gifts on that day, and a real gift should be given\nto those who cannot return it; gifts from the rich to the poor, from the\nprosperous to the unfortunate, from parents to children.\n\nThere is no need of giving water to the sea or light to the sun. Let us\ngive to those who need, neither asking nor expecting return, not even\nasking gratitude, only asking that the gift shall make the receiver\nhappy—and he who gives in that way increases his own joy.\n  • We have no right to enslave our children. We have no right to bequeath\nchains and manacles to our heirs. We have no right to leave a legacy of\nmental degradation.\n\nLiberty is the birthright of all. Parents should not deprive their\nchildren of the great gifts of nature. We cannot all leave lands and\ngold to those we love; but we can leave Liberty, and that is of more\nvalue than all the wealth of India.\n\nThe dead have no right to enslave the living. To worship ancestors is to\ncurse posterity. He who bows to the Past insults the Future; and allows,\nso to speak, the dead to rob the unborn. The coffin is good enough in\nits way, but the cradle is far better. With the bones of the fathers\nthey beat out the brains of the children.\n  • RANDOM THOUGHTS.—The road is short to anything we fear.\n    Joy lives in the house beyond the one we reach.\n    In youth the time is halting, slow and lame.\n    In age the time is winged and eager as a flame.\n    The sea seems narrow as we near the farther shore.\n\nYouth goes hand in hand with hope—old age with fear. .\n\nYouth has a wish—old age a dread.\n\nIn youth the leaves and buds seem loath to grow.\n\nYouth shakes the glass to speed the lingering sands.\n\nYouth says to Time: O crutched and limping laggard, get thee wings.\n\nThe dawn comes slowly, but the Westering day leaps like a lover to the\ndusky bosom of the Ethiop night.\n  • I THINK that all days are substantially alike in the long run. It is no\nworse to drink on Sunday than on Monday. The idea that one day in the\nweek is holy is wholly idiotic. Besides, these closing laws do no good.\n\nLaws are not locks and keys. Saloon doors care nothing about laws. Law\nor no law, people will slip in, and then, having had so much trouble\ngetting there, they will stay until they stagger out. These nasty,\nmeddlesome, Pharisaic, hypocritical laws make sneaks and hypocrites. The\nchildren of these laws are like the fathers of the laws. Ever since I\ncan remember, people have been trying to make other people temperate by\nintemperate laws. I have never known of the slightest success. It is\na pity that Christ manufactured wine, a pity that Paul took heart and\nthanked God when he saw the sign of the Three Taverns; a pity that\nJehovah put alcohol in almost everything that grows; a great pity that\nprayer-meetings are not more popular than saloons; a pity that our\nworkingmen do not amuse themselves reading religious papers and the\ngenealogies in the Old Testament.\n\nRum has caused many quarrels and many murders.\n\nReligion has caused many wars and covered countless fields with dead.\n\nOf course, all men should be temperate,—should avoid excess—should\nkeep the golden path between extremes—should gather roses, not thorns.\nThe only way to make men temperate is to develop the brain.\n\nWhen passions and appetites are stronger than the intellect, men are\nsavages; when the intellect governs the passions, when the\npassions are servants, men are civilized. The people need\neducation—facts—philosophy. Drunkenness is one form of intemperance,\nprohibition is another form. Another trouble is that these little laws\nand ordinances can not be enforced.\n\nBoth parties want votes, and to get votes they will allow unpopular laws\nto sleep, neglected, and finally refuse to enforce them. These spasms of\nvirtue, these convulsions of conscience are soon over, and then comes a\nlong period of neglectful rest.\n  • THE OLD AND NEW YEAR.—For countless ages the old earth has been making,\nin alternating light and shade, in gleam and gloom, the whirling circuit\nof the sun, leaving the record of its flight in many forms—in leaves of\nstone, in growth of tree and vine and flower, in glittering gems of many\nhues, in curious forms of monstrous life, in ravages of flood and flame,\nin fossil fragments stolen from decay by chance, in molten masses hurled\nfrom lips of fire, in gorges worn by waveless, foamless cataracts of\nice, in coast lines beaten back by the imprisoned sea, in mountain\nranges and in ocean reefs, in islands lifted from the underworld—in\ncontinents submerged and given back to light and life.\n\nAnother year has joined his shadowy fellows in the wide and voiceless\ndesert of the past, where, from the eternal hour-glass forever fall the\nsands of time. Another year, with all its joy and grief, of birth and\ndeath, of failure and success—of love and hate. And now, the first day\nof the new o'er arches all. Standing between the buried and the babe, we\ncry, \"Farewell and Hail!\"—January 1,1893.\n  • KNOWLEDGE consists in the perception of facts, their\nrelations—conditions, modes and results of action. Experience is the\nfoundation of knowledge—without experience it is impossible to know.\nIt may be that experience can be transmitted—inherited. Suppose that an\ninfinite being existed in infinite space. He being the only existence,\nwhat knowledge could he gain by experience? He could see nothing, hear\nnothing, feel nothing. He would have no use for what we call the senses.\nCould he use what we call the faculties of the mind? He could not\ncompare, remember, hope or fear. He could not reason. How could he\nknow that he existed? How could he use force? There was in the universe\nnothing that would resist—nothing.\n  • Most men are economical when dealing with abundance, hoarding gold and\nwasting time—throwing away the sunshine of life—the few remaining\nhours, and hugging to their shriveled hearts that which they do not and\ncannot even expect to use. Old age should enjoy the luxury of giving.\nHow divine to live in the atmosphere, the climate of gratitude! The men\nwho clutch and fiercely hold and look at wife and children with eyes\ndimmed by age and darkened by suspicion, giving naught until the end,\nthen give to death the gratitude that should have been their own.\n\n***\n"
}