Reunion Address
Elmwood Reunion of Six Regiments.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1887)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 9.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/reunion-address/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

• The Elmwood Reunion, participated in by six regiments,
    came to a glorious close last evening. There were thousands
    of people present. The city was gayly decorated with flags
    and hunting, while pictures and busts of Col. Ingersoll were
    in every show window. From early in the morning until noon,
    delegations kept coming in, A special train arrived from
    Peoria at 10.50 o'clock, bearing a large delegation of old
    soldiers together with Col. Ingersoll and his daughter Maud.
    He was met by the reception committee, and marched up the
    street escorted by an army of veterans. When he arrived on
    the west side of the public square, the lines were opened,
    and he marched between, in review of his old friends and
    comrades. The parade started as soon as it could be formed,
    after the arrival of the special train.
    Col. Ingersoll was greeted by a salute of thirteen guns from
    Peoria's historic cannon, as he was escorted to the grand
    stand by Spencer's band and the Peoria Veterans.
    The reviewing stand was on the west side of the park. Here
    the parade was seen by Col. Ingersoll and the other
    distinguished guests, among whom were Congressmen Graff and
    Prince, Mayor Day, Judges N. E. Worthington and I. C.
    Pinkney, and the Hon. Clark E. Carr, who also made a speech
    saying that the people cannot estimate the majesty of the
    eloquence of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, keeping alive the
    flame of patriotism from 1860 to the present time. .
    The parade was an imposing one, there were fully two
    thousand five hundred old veterans in line who passed In
    review before Col. Ingersoll, each one doffing his hat as he
    marched by. The most pleasing feature of the exercises of
    the day was the representation of the Living Flag by one
    hundred and fifty little girls of Elmwood, at ten o' clock
    under the direction of Col. Lem. H. Wiley, of Peoria. The
    flag was presented on a large Inclined amphitheatre at the
    left of the grand stand, and was the finest thing ever
    witnessed lu this part of the country.
    Following the presentation of the Living Flag, Chairman
    Brown called the Reunion to order, and Col. Lem. H. Wiley,
    National Bugler gave the assembly call.
    Following the assembly call a male chorus rendered a song,
    "Ring O Bells." The song was composed for the occasion by
    Mr. E. R. Brown and was as follows:
    "Welcome now that leader fearless,
    Free of thought and grand of brain,
    King of hearts and speaker peerless,
    Hail our Ingersoll again." ***
    Then Chairman, E. R. Brown, took charge of the meeting and
    introduced Col. Ingersoll as the greatest of living orators,
    referring to the time that the Colonel declared, a quarter
    of a century ago, in Rouse's Hall, Peoria, that from that
    time forth there would be one free man in Illinois, and
    expressing Indebtedness to him for what had been done since
    for the freedom and happiness of mankind, by his mighty
    brain, his great spirit and his gentle heart.
    He then spoke of Col. Ingersoll's residence in Peoria
    county, paying an eloquent tribute to him, and concluded by
    leading the distinguished gentleman to the front of the
    stand. The appearance of Col. Ingersoll was a signal for a
    mighty shout, which was heartily joined in by everybody
    present, even the little girls composing the living flag,
    cheering and waving their banners.
    It was fully ten minutes before the cheering had subsided,
    and when Col. Ingersoll commenced to speak it was renewed
    and he was forced to wait for several minutes more. When
    quiet was restored, he opened his address, and for an hour
    and a half he held the vast audience spell-bound with his
    eloquence and wit.
    After Col. Ingersoll's speech the veterans crowded around
    the stand to meet and grasp the hand of their comrade, and
    the boys of the Eleventh Illinois Cavalry, his old regiment,
    were especially profuse in their congratulations and thanks
    for the splendid address he had delivered. His speeeh was
    off-hand, only occasional reference being made to his short
    notes. The Colonel then left the Park amid the yells of
    delight of the old soldiers, every man of whom endeavored to
    grasp his hand.
    In the afternoon the veterans assembled in Liberty Hall by
    themselves, the room being filled. Col. Ingersoll appeared
    and was greeted with such cheers as he had not received
    during the entire day. He then said good-bye to his old
    comrades.—Chicago Inter-ocean and Peoria papers, Sept. 6th,
    1896.

Elmwood, Ills.

1895.

LADIES and Gentlemen, Fellow-citizens, Old Friends and Comrades:

It gives me the greatest pleasure to meet again those with whom I became
acquainted in the morning of my life. It is now afternoon. The sun of
life is slowly sinking in the west, and, as the evening comes, nothing
can be more delightful than to see again the faces that I knew in youth.

When first I knew you the hair was brown; it is now white. The lines
were not quite so deep, and the eyes were not quite so dim. Mingled with
this pleasure is sadness,—sadness for those who have passed away—for
the dead.

And yet I am not sure that we ought to mourn for the dead. I do not know
which is better—life or death. It may be that death is the greatest
gift that ever came from nature's open hands. We do not know.

There is one thing of which I am certain, and that is, that if we could
live forever here, we would care nothing for each other. The fact
that we must die, the fact that the feast must end, brings our souls
together, and treads the weeds from out the paths between our hearts.

And so it may be, after all, that love is a little flower that grows
on the crumbling edge of the grave. So it may be, that were it not
for death there would be no love, and without love all life would be a
curse.

I say it gives me great pleasure to meet you once again; great pleasure
to congratulate you on your good fortune—the good fortune of being a
citizen of the first and grandest republic ever established upon the
face of the earth.

That is a royal fortune. To be an heir of all the great and brave men
of this land, of all the good, loving and patient women; to be in
possession of the blessings that they have given, should make every
healthy citizen of the United States feel like a millionaire.

This, to-day, is the most prosperous country on the globe; and it is
something to be a citizen of this country.

It is well, too, whenever we meet, to draw attention to what has been
done by our ancestors. It is well to think of them and to thank them for
all their work, for all their courage, for all their toil.

Three hundred years ago our country was a vast wilderness, inhabited by
a few savages. Three hundred years ago—how short a time; hardly a tick
of the great clock of eternity—three hundred years; not a second in the
life even of this planet—three hundred years ago, a wilderness; three
hundred years ago, inhabited by a few savages; three hundred years ago
a few men in the Old World, dissatisfied, brave and adventurous, trusted
their lives to the sea and came to this land.

In 1776 there were only three millions of people all told. These men
settled on the shores of the sea. These men, by experience, learned to
govern themselves. These men, by experience, found that a man should
be respected in the proportion that he was useful. They found, by
experience, that titles were of no importance; that the real thing was
the man, and that the real things in the man were heart and brain. They
found, by experience, how to govern themselves, because there was nobody
else here when they came. The gentlemen who had been in the habit of
governing their fellow-men staid at home, and the men who had been in
the habit of being governed came here, and, consequently, they had to
govern themselves.

And finally, educated by experience, by the rivers and forests, by the
grandeur and splendor of nature, they began to think that this continent
should not belong to any other; that it was great enough to count one,
and that they had the intelligence and manhood to lay the foundations of
a nation.

It would be impossible to pay too great and splendid a tribute to the
great and magnificent souls of that day. They saw the future. They saw
this country as it is now, and they endeavored to lay the foundation
deep; they endeavored to reach the bed-rock of human rights, the
bed-rock of justice. And thereupon they declared that all men were born
equal; that all the children of nature had at birth the same rights, and
that all men had the right to pursue the only good,—happiness.

And what did they say? They said that men should govern men; that the
power to govern should come from the consent of the governed, not
from the clouds, not from some winged phantom of the air, not from the
aristocracy of ether. They said that this power should come from
men; that the men living in this world should govern it, and that the
gentlemen who were dead should keep still.

They took another step, and said that church and state should forever be
divorced. That is no harm to real religion. It never was, because real
religion means the doing of justice; real religion means the giving to
others every right you claim for yourself; real religion consists in
duties of man to man, in feeding the hungry, in clothing the naked, in
defending the innocent, and in saying what you believe to be true.

Our fathers had enough sense to say that, and a man to do that in 1776
had to be a pretty big fellow. It is not so much to say it now, because
they set the example; and, upon these principles of which I have spoken,
they fought the war of the Revolution.

At no time, probably, were the majority of our forefathers in favor
of independence, but enough of them were on the right side, and they
finally won a victory. And after the victory, those that had not been
even in favor of independence became, under the majority rule, more
powerful than the heroes of the Revolution.

Then it was that our fathers made a mistake. We have got to praise them
for what they did that was good, and we will mention what they did that
was wrong.

They forgot the principles for which they fought. They forgot the
sacredness of human liberty, and, in the name of freedom, they made a
mistake and put chains on the limbs of others.

That was their error; that was the poison that entered the American
blood; that was the corrupting influence that demoralized presidents
and priests; that was the influence that corrupted the United States of
America.

That mistake, of course, had to be paid for, as all mistakes in nature
have to be paid for. And not only do you pay for your mistake itself,
but you pay at least ten per cent, compound interest. Whenever you do
wrong, and nobody finds it out, do not imagine you have gotten over it;
you have not. Nature knows it.

The consequences of every bad act are the invisible police that no
prayers can soften, and no gold can bribe.

Recollect that. Recollect, that for every bad act, there will be laid
upon your shoulder the arresting hand of the consequences; and it is
precisely the same with a nation as it is with an individual. You have
got to pay for all of your mistakes, and you have got to pay to the
uttermost farthing. That is the only forgiveness known in nature. Nature
never settles unless she can give a receipt in full.

I know a great many men differ with me, and have all sorts of bankruptcy
systems, but Nature is not built that way.

Finally, slavery took possession of the Government. Every man who wanted
an office had to be willing to step between a fugitive slave and his
liberty.

Slavery corrupted the courts, and made judges decide that the child born
in the State of Pennsylvania, whose mother had been a slave, could not
be free.

That was as infamous a decision as was ever rendered, and yet the
people, in the name of the law, did this thing, and the Supreme Court of
the United States did not know right from wrong.

These dignified gentlemen thought that labor could be paid by lashes on
the back—which was a kind of legal tender—and finally an effort was
made to subject the new territory—the Nation—to the institution of
slavery.

Then we had a war with Mexico, in which we got a good deal of glory and
one million square miles of land, but little honor. I will admit that we
got but little honor out of that war. That territory they wanted to give
to the slaveholder.

In 1803 we purchased from Napoleon the Great, one million square miles
of land, and then, in 1821, we bought Florida from Spain. So that, when
the war came, we had about three million square miles of new land. The
object was to subject all this territory to slavery.

The idea was to go on and sell the babes from their mothers until time
should be no more. The idea was to go on with the branding-iron and the
whip. The idea was to make it a crime to teach men, human beings,
to read and write; to make every Northern man believe that he was a
bulldog, a bloodhound to track down men and women, who, with the light
of the North Star in their eyes, were seeking the free soil of Great
Britain.

Yes, in these times we had lots of mean folks. Let us remember that.

And all at once, under the forms of law, under the forms of our
Government, the greatest man under the flag was elected President. That
man was Abraham Lincoln. And then it was that those gentlemen of the
South said: "We will not be governed by the majority; we will be a law
unto ourselves."

And let me tell you here to-day—I am somewhat older than I used to be;
I have a little philosophy now that I had not at the nine o'clock in the
morning portion of my life—and I do not blame anybody. I do not blame
the South; I do not blame the Confederate soldier.

She—the South—was the fruit of conditions. She was born to
circumstances stronger than herself; and do you know, according to my
philosophy, (which is not quite orthodox), every man and woman in the
whole world are what conditions have made them.

So let us have some sense. The South said, "We will not submit; this is
not a nation, but a partnership of States." I am willing to go so far as
to admit that the South expressed the original idea of the Government.

But now the question was, to whom did the newly acquired property
belong? New States had been carved out of that territory; the soil of
these States had been purchased with the money of the Republic, and had
the South the right to take these States out of the Republic? That was
the question.

The great West had another interest, and that was that no enemy, no
other nation, should control the mouth of the Mississippi. I regard
the Mississippi River as Nature's protest against secession. The old
Mississippi River says, and swears to it, that this country shall be
one, now and forever.

What was to be done? The South said, "We will never remain," and the
North said, "You shall not go." It was a little slow about saying it,
it is true. Some of the best Republicans in the North said, "Let it go."
But the second, sober thought of the great North said, "No, this is our
country and we are going to keep it on the map of the world."

And some who had been Democrats wheeled into line, and hundreds and
thousands said, "This is our country," and finally, when the Government
called for volunteers, hundreds and thousands came forward to offer
their services. Nothing more sublime was ever seen in the history of
this world.

I congratulate you to-day that you live in a country that furnished the
greatest army that ever fought for human liberty in any country round
the world. I want you to know that. I want you to know that the North,
East and West furnished the greatest army that ever fought for human
liberty. I want you to know that Gen. Grant commanded more men, men
fighting for the right, not for conquest, than any other general who
ever marshaled the hosts of war.

Let us remember that, and let us be proud of it. The millions who poured
from the North for the defence of the flag—the story of their heroism
has been told to you again and again. I have told it myself many times.
It is known to every intelligent man and woman in the world. Everybody
knows how much we suffered. Everybody knows how we poured out money like
water; how we spent it like leaves of the forest. Everybody knows how
the brave blood was shed. Everybody knows the story of the great, the
heroic struggle, and everybody knows that at last victory came to our
side, and how the last sword of the Rebellion was handed to Gen. Grant.
There is no need to tell that story again.

But the question now, as we look back, is, was this country worth
saving? Was the blood shed in vain? Were the lives given for naught?
That is the question.

This country, according to my idea, is the one success of the world. Men
here have more to eat, more to wear, better houses, and, on the average,
a better education than those of any other nation now living, or any
that has passed away.

Was the country worth saving?

See what we have done in this country since 1860. We were not much of a
people then, to be honor bright about it. We were carrying, in the great
race of national life, the weight of slavery, and it poisoned us; it
paralyzed our best energies; it took from our politics the best minds;
it kept from the bench the greatest brains.

But what have we done since 1860, since we really became a free people,
since we came to our senses, since we have been willing to allow a man
to express his honest thoughts on every subject?

Do you know how much good we did? The war brought men together from
every part of the country and gave them an opportunity to compare their
foolishness. It gave them an opportunity to throw away their prejudices,
to find that a man who differed with them on every subject might be the
very best of fellows. That is what the war did. We have been broadening
ever since.

I sometimes have thought it did men good to make the trip to California
in 1849. As they went over the plains they dropped their prejudices on
the way. I think they did, and that's what killed the grass.

But to come back to my question, what have we done since 1860?

From 1860 to 1880, in spite of the waste of war, in spite of all the
property destroyed by flame, in spite of all the waste, our profits were
one billion three hundred and seventy-four million dollars. Think of it!
From 1860 to 1880! That is a vast sum.

From 1880 to 1890 our profits were two billion one hundred and
thirty-nine million dollars.

Men may talk against wealth as much as they please; they may talk about
money being the root of all evil, but there is little real happiness in
this world without some of it. It is very handy when staying at home
and it is almost indispensable when you travel abroad. Money is a good
thing. It makes others happy; it makes those happy whom you love, and
if a man can get a little together, when the night of death drops the
curtain upon him, he is satisfied that he has left a little to keep the
wolf from the door of those who, in life, were dear to him. Yes, money
is a good thing, especially since special providence has gone out of
business.

I can see to-day something beyond the wildest dream of any patriot who
lived fifty years ago. The United States to-day is the richest nation
on the face of the earth. The old nations of the world, Egypt, India,
Greece, Rome, every one of them, when compared with this great Republic,
must be regarded as paupers.

How much do you suppose this Nation is worth to-day? I am talking about
land and cattle, products, manufactured articles and railways. Over
seventy thousand million dollars. Just think of it.

Take a thousand dollars and then take nine hundred and ninety-nine
thousand; so you will have one thousand piles of one thousand each. That
makes only a million, and yet the United States today is worth seventy
thousand millions. This is thirty-five percent, more than Great Britain
is worth.

We are a great Nation. We have got the land. This land was being made
for many millions of years. Its soil was being made by the great lakes
and rivers, and being brought down from the mountains for countless
ages.

This continent was standing like a vast pan of milk, with the cream
rising for millions of years, and we were the chaps that got there when
the skimming commenced.

We are rich, and we ought to be rich. It is our own fault if we are not.
In every department of human endeavor, along every path and highway,
the progress of the Republic has been marvelous, beyond the power of
language to express.

Let me show you: In 1860 the horse-power of all the engines, the
locomotives and the steamboats that traversed the lakes and rivers—the
entire power—was three million five hundred thousand. In 1890 the
horse-power of engines and locomotives and steamboats was over seventeen
million.

Think of that and what it means! Think of the forces at work for the
benefit of the United States, the machines doing the work of thousands
and millions of men!

And remember that every engine that puffs is puffing for you; every road
that runs is running for you. I want you to know that the average man
and woman in the United States to-day has more of the conveniences of
life than kings and queens had one hundred years ago.

Yes, we are getting along.

In 1860 we used one billion eight hundred million dollars' worth
of products, of things manufactured and grown, and we sent to other
countries two hundred and fifty million dollars' worth.

In 1893 we used three billion eighty-nine million dollars' worth, and
we sent to other countries six hundred and fifty-four million dollars'
worth.

You see, these vast sums are almost inconceivable. There is not a
man to-day with brains large enough to understand these figures; to
understand how many cars this money put upon the tracks, how much coal
was devoured by the locomotives, how many men plowed and worked in the
fields, how many sails were given to the wind, how many ships crossed
the sea.

I tell you, there is no man able to think of the ships that were built,
the cars that were made, the mines that were opened, the trees that were
felled—no man has imagination enough to grasp the meaning of it all. No
man has any conception of the sea till he crosses it. I knew nothing of
how broad this country is until I went over it in a slow train.

Since 1860 the productive power of the United States has more than
trebled.

I like to talk about these things, because they mean good houses,
carpets on the floors, pictures on the walls, some books on the shelves.
They mean children going to school with their stomachs full of good
food, prosperous men and proud mothers.

All my life I have taken a much deeper interest in what men produce than
in what nature does. I would rather see the prairies, with the oats and
the wheat and the waving corn, and the schoolhouse, and hear the thrush
sing amid the happy homes of prosperous men and women—I would rather
see these things than any range of mountains in the world. Take it as
you will, a mountain is of no great value.

In 1860 our land was worth four billion five hundred million dollars; in
1890 it was worth fourteen billion dollars.

In 1860 all the railroads in the United States were worth four hundred
million dollars, now they are worth a little less than ten thousand
million dollars.

I want you to understand what these figures mean.

For thirty years we spent, on an average, one million dollars a day in
building railroads.—I want you to think what that means. All that money
had to be dug out of the ground. It had to be made by raising something
or manufacturing something. We did not get it by writing essays on
finance, or discussing the silver question. It had to be made with the
ax, the plow, the reaper, the mower; in every form of industry; all to
produce these splendid results.

We have railroads enough now to make seven tracks around the great
globe, and enough left for side tracks. That is what we have done here,
in what the European nations are pleased to call "the new world."

I am telling you these things because you may not know them, and I did
not know them myself until a few days ago. I am anxious to give away
information, for it is only by giving it away that you can keep it. When
you have told it, you remember it. It is with information as it is
with liberty, the only way to be dead sure of it is to give it to other
people.

In 1860 the houses in the United States, the cabins on the frontier, the
buildings in the cities, were worth six thousand million dollars. Now
they are worth over twenty-two thousand million dollars. To talk about
figures like these is enough to make a man dizzy.

In 1860 our animals of all kinds, including the Illinois deer—commonly
called swine—the oxen and horses, and all others, were worth about one
thousand million dollars; now they are worth about four thousand million
dollars.

Are we not getting rich? Our national debt today is nothing. It is like
a man who owes a cent and has a dollar.

Since 1860 we have been industrious. We have created two million five
hundred thousand new farms. Since 1860 we have done a good deal of
plowing; there have been a good many tired legs. I have been that way
myself. Since 1860 we have put in cultivation two hundred million acres
of land. Illinois, the best State in the Union, has thirty-five million
acres of land, and yet, since 1860, we have put in cultivation enough
land to make six States of the size of Illinois. That will give you some
idea of the quantity of work we have done. I will admit I have not done
much of it myself, but I am proud of it.

In 1860 we had four million five hundred and sixty-five thousand farmers
in this country, whose land and implements were worth over sixteen
thousand million dollars. The farmers of this country, on an average,
are worth five thousand dollars, and the peasants of the Old World, who
cultivate the soil, are not worth, on an average, ten dollars beyond the
wants of the moment. The farmers of our country produce, on an average,
about one million four hundred thousand dollars' worth of stuff a day.

What else? Have we in other directions kept pace with our physical
development? Have we developed the mind? Have we endeavored to develop
the brain? Have we endeavored to civilize the heart? I think we have.

We spend more for schools per head than any nation in the world. And the
common school is the breath of life.

Great Britain spends one dollar and thirty cents per head on the common
schools; France spends eighty cents; Austria, thirty cents; Germany,
fifty cents; Italy, twenty-five cents, and the United States over two
dollars and fifty cents.

I tell you the schoolhouse is the fortress of liberty. Every schoolhouse
is an arsenal, filled with weapons and ammunition to destroy the
monsters of ignorance and fear.

As I have said ten thousand times, the school-house is my cathedral. The
teacher is my preacher.

Eighty-seven per cent, of all the people of the United States, over ten
years of age, can read and write. There is no parallel for this in the
history of the wide world.

Over forty-two millions of educated citizens, to whom are opened all the
treasures of literature!

Forty-two millions of people, able to read and write! I say, there is
no parallel for this. The nations of antiquity were very ignorant when
compared with this great Republic of ours. There is no other nation in
the world that can show a record like ours. We ought to be proud of
it. We ought to build more schools, and build them better. Our teachers
ought to be paid more, and everything ought to be taught in the public
school that is worth knowing.

I believe that the children of the Republic, no matter whether their
fathers are rich or poor, ought to be allowed to drink at the fountain
of education, and it does not cost more to teach everything in the free
schools than it does teaching reading and writing and ciphering.

Have we kept up in other ways? The post office tells a wonderful story.
In Switzerland, going through the post office in each year, are letters,
etc., in the proportion of seventy-four to each inhabitant. In England
the number is sixty; in Germany, fifty-three; in France, thirty-nine; in
Austria, twenty-four; in Italy, sixteen, and in the United States, our
own home, one hundred and ten. Think of it. In Italy only twenty-five
cents paid per head for the support of the public schools and only
sixteen letters. And this is the place where God's agent lives. I would
rather have one good schoolmaster than two such agents.

There is another thing. A great deal has been said, from time to time,
about the workingman. I have as much sympathy with the workingman as
anybody on the earth—who does not work. There has always been a desire
in this world to let somebody else do the work, nearly everybody having
the modesty to stand back whenever there is anything to be done. In
savage countries they make the women do the work, so that the weak
people have always the bulk of the burdens. In civilized communities
the poor are the ones, of course, that work, and probably they are never
fully paid. It is pretty hard for a manufacturer to tell how much he
can pay until he sells the stuff which he manufactures. Every man who
manufactures is not rich. I know plenty of poor corporations; I know
tramp railroads that have not a dollar. And you will find some of them
as anarchistic as you will find their men. What a man can pay, depends
upon how much he can get for what he has produced. What the farmer can
pay his help depends upon the price he receives for his stock, his corn
and his wheat.

But wages in this country are getting better day by day. We are getting
a little nearer to being civilized day by day, and when I want to make
up my mind on a subject I try to get a broad view of it, and not decide
it on one case.

In 1860 the average wages of the workingman were, per year, two hundred
and eighty-nine dollars. In 1890 the average was four hundred and
eighty-five. Thus the average has almost doubled in thirty years. The
necessaries of life are far cheaper than they were in 1860. Now, to my
mind, that is a hopeful sign. And when I am asked how can the dispute
between employer and employee be settled, I answer, it will be settled
when both parties become civilized.

It takes a long time to educate a man up to the point where he does not
want something for nothing. Yet, when a man is civilized, he does not.

He wants for a thing just what it is worth; he wants to give labor its
legitimate reward, and when he has something to sell he never wants more
than it is worth. I do not claim to be civilized myself; but all these
questions between capital and labor will be settled by civilization.

We are to-day accumulating wealth at the rate of more than seven million
dollars a day. Is not this perfectly splendid?

And in the midst of prosperity let us never forget the men who helped
to save our country, the men whose heroism gave us the prosperity we now
enjoy.

We have one-seventh of the good land of this world. You see there is a
great deal of poor land in the world. I know the first time I went to
California, I went to the Sink of the Humboldt, and what a forsaken look
it had. There was nothing there but mines of brimstone. On the train,
going over, there was a fellow who got into a dispute with a minister
about the first chapter of Genesis. And when they got along to the Sink
of the Humboldt the fellow says to the minister:

"Do you tell me that God made the world in six days, and then rested on
the seventh?"

He said, "I do."

"Well," said the fellow, "don't you think he could have put in another
day here to devilish good advantage?"

But, as I have said, we have got about one-seventh of the good land of
the world. I often hear people say that we have too many folks here;
that we ought to stop immigration; that we have no more room. The people
who say this know nothing of their country. They are ignorant of their
native land. I tell you that the valley of the Mississippi and the
valleys of its tributaries can support a population of five hundred
millions of men, women, and children. Don't talk of our being
overpopulated; we have only just started.

Here, in this land of ours, five hundred million men and women and
children can be supported and educated without trouble. We can afford to
double two or three times more. But what have we got to do? We have got
to educate them when they come. That is to say, we have got to educate
their children, and in a few generations we will have them splendid
American citizens, proud of the Republic.

We have no more patriotic men under the flag than the men who came from
other lands, the hundreds and thousands of those who fought to preserve
this country. And I think just as much of them as I would if they had
been born on American soil. What matters it where a man was born? It is
what is inside of him you have to look at—what kind of a heart he has,
and what kind of a head. I do not care where he was born; I simply ask,
Is he a man? Is he willing to give to others what he claims for himself?
That is the supreme test.

Now, I have got a hobby. I do not suppose any of you have heard of it.
I think the greatest thing for a country is for all of its citizens to
have a home. I think it is around the fireside of home that the virtues
grow, including patriotism. We want homes.

Until a few years ago it was the custom to put men in prison for debt.
The authorities threw a man into jail when he owed something which he
could not pay, and by throwing him into jail they deprived him of an
opportunity to earn what would pay it. After a little time they got
sense enough to know that they could not collect a debt in this way,
and that it was better to give him his freedom and allow him to earn
something, if he could. Therefore, imprisonment for debt was done away
with.

At another time, when a man owed anything, if he was a carpenter, a
blacksmith or a shoemaker, and not able to pay it, they took his tools,
on a writ of sale and execution, and thus incapacitated him so that he
could do nothing. Finally they got sense enough to abolish that law,
to leave the mechanic his tools and the farmer his plows, horses and
wagons, and after this, debts were paid better than ever they were
before.

Then we thought of protecting the home-builder, and we said: "We will
have a homestead exemption. We will put a roof over wife and child,
which shall be exempt from execution and sale," and so we preserved
hundreds of thousands and millions of homes, while debts were paid just
as well as ever they were paid before.

Now, I want to take a step further. I want, the rich people of this
country to support it. I want the people who are well off to pay the
taxes. I want the law to exempt a homestead of a certain value, say from
two thousand dollars to two thousand five hundred, and to exempt it, not
only from sale on judgment and execution, but to exempt it from taxes of
all sorts and kinds. I want to keep the roof over the heads of children
when the man himself is gone. I want that homestead to belong not only
to the man, but to wife and children. I would like to live to see a roof
over the heads of all the families of the Republic. I tell you, it does
a man good to have a home. You are in partnership with nature when you
plant a hill of corn. When you set out a tree you have a new interest in
this world. When you own a little tract of land you feel as if you and
the earth were partners. All these things dignify human nature.

Bad as I am, I have another hobby. There are thousands and thousands of
criminals in our country. I told you a little while ago I did not blame
the South, because of the conditions which prevailed in the South. The
people of the South did as they must. I am the same about the criminal.
He does as he must.

If you want to stop crime you must treat it properly. The conditions of
society must not be such as to produce criminals.

When a man steals and is sent to the penitentiary he ought to be sent
there to be reformed and not to be brutalized; to be made a better man,
not to be robbed.

I am in favor, when you put a man in the penitentiary, of making him
work, and I am in favor of paying him what his work is worth, so that
in five years, when he leaves the prison cell, he will have from two
hundred dollars to three hundred dollars as a breastwork between him and
temptation, and something for a foundation upon which to build a nobler
life.

Now he is turned out and before long he is driven back. Nobody will
employ him, nobody will take him, and, the night following the day of
his release he is without a roof over his head and goes back to his old
ways. I would allow him to change his name, to go to another State with
a few hundred dollars in his pocket and begin the world again.

We must recollect that it is the misfortune of a man to become a
criminal.

I have hobbies and plenty of them.

I want to see five hundred millions of people living here in peace. If
we want them to live in peace, we must develop the brain, civilize the
heart, and above all things, must not forget education. Nothing should
be taught in the school that somebody does not know.

When I look about me to-day, when I think of the advance of my country,
then I think of the work that has been done.

Think of the millions who crossed the mysterious sea, of the thousands
and thousands of ships with their brave prows towards the West.

Think of the little settlements on the shores of the ocean, on the banks
of rivers, on the edges of forests.

Think of the countless conflicts with savages—of the midnight
attacks—of the cabin floors wet with the blood of dead fathers, mothers
and babes.

Think of the winters of want, of the days of toil, of the nights of
fear, of the hunger and hope.

Think of the courage, the sufferings and hardships.

Think of the homesickness, the disease and death.

Think of the labor; of the millions and millions of trees that were
felled, while the aisles of the great forests were filled with the
echoes of the ax; of the many millions of miles of furrows turned by the
plow; of the millions of miles of fences built; of the countless logs
changed to lumber by the saw—of the millions of huts, cabins and
houses.

Think of the work. Listen, and you will hear the hum of wheels, the
wheels with which our mothers spun the flax and wool. Listen, and you
will hear the looms and flying shuttles with which they wove the cloth.

Think of the thousands still pressing toward the West, of the roads they
made, of the bridges they built; of the homes, where the sunlight fell,
where the bees hummed, the birds sang and the children laughed; of the
little towns with mill and shop, with inn and schoolhouse; of the old
stages, of the crack of the whips and the drivers' horns; of the canals
they dug.

Think of the many thousands still pressing toward the West, passing over
the Alleghanies to the shores of the Ohio and the great lakes—still
onward to the Mississippi—the Missouri.

See the endless processions of covered wagons drawn by horses, by
oxen,—men and boys and girls on foot, mothers and babes inside. See the
glimmering camp fires at night; see the thousands up with the sun and
away, leaving the perfume of coffee on the morning air, and sometimes
leaving the new-made grave of wife or child. Listen, and you will hear
the cry of "Gold!" and you will see many thousands crossing the great
plains, climbing the mountains and pressing on to the Pacific.

Think of the toil, the courage it has taken to possess this land!

Think of the ore that was dug, the furnaces that lit the nights with
flame; of the factories and mills by the rushing streams.

Think of the inventions that went hand in hand with the work; of the
flails that were changed to threshers; of the sickles that became
cradles, and the cradles that were changed to reapers and headers—of
the wooden plows that became iron and steel; of the spinning wheel that
became the jennie, and the old looms transformed to machines that almost
think—of the steamboats that traversed the rivers, making the towns
that were far apart neighbors and friends; of the stages that became
cars, of the horses changed to locomotives with breath of flame, and the
roads of dust and mud to highways of steel, of the rivers spanned and
the mountains tunneled.

Think of the inventions, the improvements that changed the hut to the
cabin, the cabin to the house, the house to the palace, the earthen
floors and bare walls to carpets and pictures—that changed famine to
feast—toil to happy labor and poverty to wealth.

Think of the cost.

Think of the separation of families—of boys and girls leaving the old
home—taking with them the blessings and kisses of fathers and mothers.
Think of the homesickness, of the tears shed by the mothers left by the
daughters gone. Think of the millions of brave men deformed by labor now
sleeping in their honored graves.

Think of all that has been wrought, endured and accomplished for our
good, and let us remember with gratitude, with love and tears the brave
men, the patient loving women who subdued this land for us.

Then think of the heroes who served this country; who gave us this
glorious present and hope of a still more glorious future; think of the
men who really made us free, who secured the blessings of liberty, not
only to us, but to billions yet unborn.

This country will be covered with happy homes and free men and free
women.

To-day we remember the heroic dead, those whose blood reddens the paths
and highways of honor; those who died upon the field, in the charge,
in prison-pens, or in famine's clutch; those who gave their lives that
liberty should not perish from the earth. And to-day we remember the
great leaders who have passed to the realm of silence, to the land of
shadow. Thomas, the rock of Chickamauga, self-poised, firm, brave,
faithful; Sherman, the reckless, the daring, the prudent and the
victorious; Sheridan, a soldier fit to have stood by Julius Cæsar and
to have uttered the words of command; and Grant, the silent, the
invincible, the unconquered; and rising above them all, Lincoln, the
wise, the patient, the merciful, the grandest figure in the Western
world. We remember them all today and hundreds of thousands who are
not mentioned, but who are equally worthy, hundreds of thousands of
privates, deserving of equal honor with the plumed leaders of the host.

And what shall I say to you, survivors of the death-filled days? To you,
my comrades, to you whom I have known in the great days, in the time
when the heart beat fast and the blood flowed strong; in the days of
high hope—what shall I say? All I can say is that my heart goes out to
you, one and all. To you who bared your bosoms to the storms of war; to
you who left loved ones to die, if need be, for the sacred cause. May
you live long in the land you helped to save; may the winter of your
age be as green as spring, as full of blossoms as summer, as generous as
autumn, and may you, surrounded by plenty, with your wives at your sides
and your grandchildren on your knees, live long. And when at last the
fires of life burn low; when you enter the deepening dusk of the last
of many, many happy days; when your brave hearts beat weak and slow,
may the memory of your splendid deeds; deeds that freed your fellow-men;
deeds that kept your country on the map of the world; deeds that kept
the flag of the Republic in the air—may the memory of these deeds fill
your souls with peace and perfect joy. Let it console you to know that
you are not to be forgotten. Centuries hence your story will be told in
art and song, and upon your honored graves flowers will be lovingly laid
by millions' of men and women now unborn.

Again expressing the joy that I feel in having met you, and again saying
farewell to one and all, and wishing you all the blessings of life, I
bid you goodbye.*
  • At the last reunion of the Eleventh Illinois Cavalry, the
    Colonel's old regiment, and the soldiers of Peoria county,
    which Mr. Ingersoll attended, a little incident happened
    which let us into the inner circle of his life. The meeting
    was held at Elmwood. While the soldier were passing in
    review the citizens and young people filled all the seats in
    the park and crowded around the speaker's stand, so as to
    occupy all available space. When the soldiers had finished
    their parade and returned to the park, they found it
    impossible to get near the speaker. Of course we were all
    disappointed, but were forced to stand on the outskirts of
    the vast throng.
    As soon as he ceased speaking, Mr. Ingersoll said to a
    soldier that he would like to meet his comrades in the hall
    at a certain hour in the afternoon. The word spread quickly,
    and at the appointed hour the hall was crowded with
    soldiers. The guard stationed at tue door was ordered to let
    none but soldiers pass into the hall. Some of the comrades,
    however, brought their wives. The guards, true to their
    orders, refused to let the ladies pass. Just as Mr.
    Ingersoll was ready to speak, word came to him that some of
    the comrades' wives were outside and wanted permission to
    pass the guard. The hall was full, but Mr. Ingersoll
    requested all comrades whose wives were within reach to go
    and get them. When his order had been complied with even
    standing room was at a premium. When Mr. Ingersoll arose to
    speak to that great assemblage of white-haired veterans and
    their aged companions his voice was unusually tender, and the
    wave of emotion that passed through the hall cannot be told
    in words. Tears and cheers blended as Mr. Ingersoll arose
    and began his speech with the statement that all present
    were nearing the setting sun of life, and in all probability
    that was the last opportunity many of them would have of
    taking each other by the hand.
    In this half-hour impromptu speech the great-hearted man,
    Robert G. Ingersoll, was seen at his best. It was not a
    clash of opinions over party or creed, but it was a meeting
    of hearts and communion together In the holy of holies of
    human life. The address was a series of word-pictures that
    still hang on the walls of memory. The speaker, in his most
    sympathetic mood, drew a picture of the service of the G. A.
    R., of the women of the republic, and then paid a beautiful
    tribute to home and invoked the kindest and greatest
    influence to guard his comrades and their companions during
    the remainder of life's journey.
    We got very close to the man that day, where we could see
    the heart of Mr. Ingersoll. I have often wished that a
    reporter could have been present to preserve the address.
    Imagine four beautiful word-paintings entitled, "The Service
    of the G. A. R.," "The Influence of Noble Womanhood," "The
    Sacredness of Home," and "The Pilgrimage of Life." Imagine
    these word-paintings as drawn by Mr. Ingersoll under the
    most favorable circumstances, and you have an idea of that
    address. Mr. Ingersoll the Agnostic is a very different man
    from Mr. Ingersoll the man and patriot. I cannot share the
    doubts of this Agnostic. I cannot help admiring the man and
    patriot.—The Rev. Frank McAlpine, Peoria Star, August 1,
    1895.
