{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:the-children-of-the-stage",
  "slug": "the-children-of-the-stage",
  "title": "The Children of the Stage",
  "subtitle": "On the stage and its people.",
  "excerpt": "A defense of the stage and the people who live by it — their humanity, their craft, and their contribution to civilization.",
  "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/the-children-of-the-stage/",
  "wordCount": 1368,
  "body": "The Children of the Stage\n\nNew York, March 23, 1899.\n  • Col. Robert G. Ingersoll was the special star among stars\n    at the benefit given yesterday afternoon at the Fifth Avenue\n    Theatre for the Actors' Fund. There were a great many other\n    stars and a very long programme. The consequence was that\n    the performance began before one o'clock and was not over\n    until almost dinner time.\n    Usually in such cases the least important performers are\n    placed at the beginning and the audience straggles in\n    leisurely without worrying a great deal over what it has\n    missed. Yesterday, however, it had been announced in advance\n    that Col. Ingersoll would start the ball a-rolling and the\n    result was that before the overture was finished the house\n    was packed to the doors.\n    Col. Ingersoll's contribution was a short address delivered\n    in his characteristic style of florid eloquence.—The World,\n    New York, March 24, 1899.\n\nDisguise it as we may, we live in a frightful world, with evils, with\nenemies, on every side. From the hedges along the path of life, leap the\nbandits that murder and destroy; and every human being, no matter how\noften he escapes, at last will fall beneath the assassin's knife.\n\nTo change the figure: We are all passengers on the train of life. The\ntickets give the names of the stations where we boarded the car, but\nthe destination is unknown. At every station some passengers, pallid,\nbreathless, dead, are put away, and some with the light of morning in\ntheir eyes, get on.\n\nTo change the figure again: On the wide sea of life we are all on ships\nor rafts or spars, and some by friendly winds are borne to the fortunate\nisles, and some by storms are wrecked on the cruel rocks. And yet upon\nthe isles the same as upon the rocks, death waits for all. And death\nalone can truly say, \"All things come to him who waits.\"\n\nAnd yet, strangely enough, there is in this world of misery, of\nmisfortune and of death, the blessed spirit of mirth. The travelers on\nthe path, on the train, on the ships, the rafts and spars, sometimes\nforget their perils and their doom.\n\nAll blessings on the man whose face was first illuminated by a smile!\n\nAll blessings on the man who first gave to the common air the music\nof laughter—the music that for the moment drove fears from the heart,\ntears from the eyes, and dimpled cheeks with joy!\n\nAll blessings on the man who sowed with merry hands the seeds of humor,\nand at the lipless skull of death snapped the reckless fingers of\ndisdain! Laughter is the blessed boundary line between the brute and\nman.\n\nWho are the friends of the human race? They who hide with vine and\nflower the cruel rocks of fate—the children of genius, the sons and\ndaughters of mirth and laughter, of imagination, those whose thoughts,\nlike moths with painted wings, fill the heaven of the mind.\n\nAmong these sons and daughters are the children of the stage, the\ncitizens of the mimic world—the world enriched by all the wealth of\ngenius—enriched by painter, orator, composer and poet. The world\nof which Shakespeare, the greatest of human beings, is still the\nunchallenged emperor. These children of the stage have delighted the\nweary travelers on the thorny path, amused the passengers on the fated\ntrain, and filled with joy the hearts of the clingers to spars, and the\nfloaters on rafts.\n\nThese, children of the stage, with fancy's wand rebuild the past. The\ndead are brought to life and made to act again the parts they played.\nThe hearts and lips that long ago were dust, are made to beat and speak\nagain. The dead kings are crowned once more, and from the shadows of the\npast emerge the queens, jeweled and sceptred as of yore. Lovers leave\ntheir graves and breathe again their burning vows; and again the white\nbreasts rise and fall in passion's storm. The laughter that died away\nbeneath the touch of death is heard again and lips that fell to ashes\nlong ago are curved once more with mirth. Again the hero bares his\nbreast to death; again the patriot falls, and again the scaffold,\nstained with noble blood, becomes a shrine.\n\nThe citizens of the real world gain joy and comfort from the stage.\nThe broker, the speculator ruined by rumor, the lawyer baffled by the\nintelligence of a jury or the stupidity of a judge, the doctor who lost\nhis patience because he lost his patients, the merchant in the dark days\nof depression, and all the children of misfortune, the victims of hope\ndeferred, forget their troubles for a little while when looking on\nthe mimic world. When the shaft of wit flies like the arrow of Ulysses\nthrough all the rings and strikes the centre; when words of wisdom\nmingle with the clown's conceits; when folly laughing shows her pearls,\nand mirth holds carnival; when the villain fails and the right triumphs,\nthe trials and the griefs of life for the moment fade away.\n\nAnd so the maiden longing to be loved, the young man waiting for\nthe \"Yes\" deferred; the unloved wife, hear the old, old story told\nagain,—and again within their hearts is the ecstasy of requited love.\n\nThe stage brings solace to the wounded, peace to the troubled, and with\nthe wizard's wand touches the tears of grief and they are changed to the\nsmiles of joy.\n\nThe stage has ever been the altar, the pulpit, the cathedral of the\nheart. There the enslaved and the oppressed, the erring, the fallen,\neven the outcast, find sympathy, and pity gives them all her tears—and\nthere, in spite of wealth and power, in spite of caste and cruel pride,\ntrue love has ever triumphed over all.\n\nThe stage has taught the noblest lesson, the highest truth, and that is\nthis: It is better to deserve without receiving than to receive without\ndeserving. As a matter of fact, it is better to be the victim of\nvillainy than to be a villain. Better to be stolen from than to be\na thief, and in the last analysis the oppressed, the slave, is less\nunfortunate than the oppressor, the master.\n\nThe children of the stage, these citizens of the mimic world, are\nnot the grasping, shrewd and prudent people of the mart; they are\nimprovident enough to enjoy the present and credulous enough to believe\nthe promises of the universal liar known as Hope. Their hearts and hands\nare open. As a rule genius is generous, luxurious, lavish, reckless and\nroyal. And so, when they have reached the ladder's topmost round, they\nthink the world is theirs and that the heaven of the future can have\nno cloud. But from the ranks of youth the rival steps. Upon the veteran\nbrows the wreaths begin to fade, the leaves to fall; and failure sadly\nsups on memory. They tread the stage no more. They leave the mimic\nworld, fair fancy's realm; they leave their palaces and thrones; their\ncrowns are gone, and from their hands the sceptres fall. At last, in age\nand want, in lodgings small and bare, they wait the prompter's call;\nand when the end is reached, maybe a vision glorifies the closing scene.\nAgain they are on the stage; again their hearts throb high; again they\nutter perfect words; again the flowers fall about their feet; and as the\ncurtain falls, the last sound that greets their ears, is the music of\napplause, the \"bravos\" for an encore.\n\nAnd then the silence falls on darkness.\n\nSome loving hands should close their eyes, some loving lips should leave\nupon their pallid brows a kiss; some friends should lay the breathless\nforms away, and on the graves drop blossoms jeweled with the tears of\nlove.\n\nThis is the work of the generous men and women who contribute to the\nActors' Fund. This is charity; and these generous men and women have\ntaught, and are teaching, a lesson that all the world should learn, and\nthat is this: The hands that help are holier than the lips that pray.\n"
}