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             INGERSOLL, A BIOGRAPHICAL APPRECIATION

                            CHAPTER 9

                  FROM EIGHTEEN NINETY-SEVEN TO
                      EIGHTEEN NINETY-NINE.

     Two lectures, The Truth and A Thanksgiving Sermon, were
published in 1897.

     The orator's attitude toward the subject of the first, and the
objects and recipients of his gratitude and thankfulness in the
second, may be safely left, for the present at least, to inference
and imagination. These lectures are among the rarest of Ingersoll's
artistic and intellectual treats.

     Even those whose knowledge of Ingersoll has been derived
solely from the preceding pages will not be surprised at the
statement, that, in common with many other individuals of genius,
he was a passionate lover of music. Of its origin he once said: --

     "Music expresses feeling and thought, without language. It was
below and before speech, and it is above and beyond all words.
Beneath the waves is the sea -- above the clouds is the sky.

     "Before man found a name for any thought, or thing, he had
hopes and fears and passions, and these were rudely expressed in
tones.

     "Of one thing, however, I am certain, and that is, that music
was born of love. Had there never been any human affection, there
never could have been uttered a strain of music. Possibly some
mother, looking in the eyes of her baby, gave the first melody to
the enraptured air."

     Could anything be tenderer than the last sentence? It will,
however, doubtless surprise many to learn, that, at the same time,
he did not, as he himself remarked, know "one note from another."
He did not need to know: he had a heart and a brain. By this, I do
not mean, that, like so many others, he had, in his thorax, merely
a mechanical apparatus which pumped red ice-water, and, in his
cranium, merely an extremely accurate physicopsychical contrivance
for examining and analyzing facts, and forming conclusions. I mean
that he had feeling and imagination, in their fullest, highest, and
noblest sense -- the elemental passion, instinct, and insight of
which all art is born; which can neither be taught nor learned;
which are coexistent with genius; and which, without knowing why,
recognize their kind as invariably, as inevitably, as the nodding
violet catches the image of its perfumed self in the stainless
bosom of the meadow stream.

     And not only did he have the most fitting and adequate 
appreciation of music of all kinds, from the vocal solo to the
choral, "from the hand-organ to the orchestra": he could describe
this appreciation, -- the impressions which music made upon him. In
the presence of a flower; at sight of a sunset, a star; in the
hearing of "music yearning like a god in pain," -- most men are
dumb; but the poet is moved to expression. Proof of the unusually 



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profound depths to which Ingersoll was stirred by music is not only
a part of the precious memories of all who were near and dear to
him; there is an abundance of such proof in his works. This varies
from the merest fanciful word-picture of tone, melody, harmony, as
occurring in the simplest pieces, to the most profound, subtle, and
strangely beautiful conceptions of the greatest productions of the
greatest composer.

     Thus, in Ingersoll's posthumous writings is this random
"fragment" in appreciation of the voice of Scalchi: --

     "Imagine amethysts, rubies, diamonds, emeralds and opals
mingled as liquids -- then imagine these marvelous glories of light
and color changing to a tone, and you have the wondrous, the
incomparable voice of Scalchi."

     And this, of "The Organ": --

     "The beginnings -- the timidities -- the half-thoughts --
blushes -- suggestions -- a phrase of grace and feeling -- a
sustained note -- the wing on the wind -- confidence -- the flight
-- rising with many harmonies that unite in the voluptuous swell --
in the passionate tremor -- rising still higher -- flooding the
great dome with the soul of enraptured sound."

     After reading only these few lines, in the light of previous
knowledge of their author, can we wonder that many a musician,
instinct with the artist's yearning for sympathy and approval, was
drawn to Ingersoll in the ties of a friendship which only death
could sever? The following "fragment," written in August, 1880, is
not only most interesting evidence of one such friendship, but
furnishes additional proof of Ingersoll's high and noble
appreciation of music, and his ability to convey to others, in
language as subtly sweet as the strains of the violin itself,
expressions of that appreciation: --

     "This week the great violinist Edouard Remenyi, as my guest,
visited the Bass Rocks House, Cape Ann, Mass., and for three days
delighted and entranced the fortunate idlers of the beach. He
played nearly all the time, night and day, seemingly carried away
with his own music. Among the many selections given, were the
andante from the Tenth Sonata in E flat, also from the Twelfth
Sonata in G minor, by Mozart. Nothing could exceed the wonderful
playing of the selections from the Twelfth Sonata. A hush as of
death fell upon the audience, and when he ceased, tears fell upon
applauding hands. Then followed the Elegy from Ernst; then 'The
Ideal Dance' composed by himself -- a fairy piece, full of wings
and glancing feet, moonlight and melody, where fountains fall in
showers of pearl, and waves of music die on the sands of gold --
then came the 'Barcarole' by Schubert, and he played this with
infinite spirit, in a kind of inspired frenzy, as though music
itself were mad with joy; then the grand Sonata in G, in three
movements, by Beethoven."

     "Where fountains fall in showers of pearl,

     And waves of music die on sands of gold."


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     Indeed, the frenzied bow of the master will make its many
journeys, and we shall linger long in the enchanted realms of
Wordsworth and Keats and Swinburne, before our senses are pained
again by a strain so enamored of the Elysian fields.

     In another "fragment," Ingersoll writes of Remenyi's playing:

     "In my mind the old tones are still rising and falling --
still throbbing, pleading, beseeching, imploring, wailing like the
lost -- rising winged and triumphant, superb and victorious -- then
caressing, whispering every thought of love -- intoxicated,
delirious with joy -- panting with passion -- fading to silence as
softly and imperceptibly as consciousness is lost in sleep."

     We shall not wonder at the praise bestowed in these
descriptions if we consider that, at the time of their writing,
Remenyi, who had just completed a tour of the world, was aglow with
renewed inspiration naturally incident to personal association with
the foremost musical masters then living, including Brahms, Liszt,
and Wagner.

     Remenyi's admiration of, and fondness for, Ingersoll were most
intense. The violinist was a frequent guest of the orator, whose
self and family he would delight by the hour with his marvelous
music. His Liberty is dedicated to Ingersoll; and I once saw an
envelope that was addressed in Remenyi's peculiar hand, "To Col.
Robert G. Ingersoll, the World's Brain Progenitor." Remenyi seems
to have been both as sturdy as a lion and as playful as a kitten.
Naturally the latter side of his personality was unreservedly
manifested toward his genial, sunny-hearted friend. This is best
seen in his amusing and altogether delightful letters. They would
usually begin with some such salutation as, "Dear Colonellibus," or
"Dear Ingersollibus," or both, and, after running the gamut of
affectionate friendship, would end with, "Love to alllll," from
"Your porridge prodigy and admiring friend, the old fiddler." They
are, indeed, amusing and delightful. Thus one of them, written in
Chicago, on February 8, 1892, indulges the hope that Ingersoll (to
arrive later) may evade the thousands of other friends long enough
to "come and take lunch with me and my friend Dr. E. H. Pratt, who
is the very bigggestest surgeon doctor on this Globe." Another
letter, announcing a prospective visit to "400 (5th Avenue),"
concludes with the warning: " * * * and then woe to you. I will
suffocate you with music." One of these communications, not too
intimate for publication, shall here be introduced in full, and
without sacrificing (to the ruthless rules of grammar!) a whit of
the unique musical genius and litterateur who penned it: --

                                          "73 West 85th Street,
                                                "N.York.
                                       "Thursday -- 12 Aug. 1897.

     "To
     "Col. Robert Ingersoll
     "Somewhere
     "Anywhere
     "and
     "Everywhere.


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     Dear Jupiter:

     "Here I is at last in N. York, and I long to see you -- and to
see you all -- Are you, are you all in good Health, because this
Health matter is THE thing -- I knows it now, since I have been
partly -- mostly on the other side -- Now I appreciate my GOOD
health -- and I take precious good care of it -- and to-day it is
the 342d day that I am living on milk -- and apples, and rough-
shoed bread, but which is good enough for me, as it keeps me not
only in ship-shape order, but through the apples in apple-pie order
-- without the actual pie entering into my system -- but all this
is much too much about me -- but what is the principle thing, is,
that I hope to see you all soon -- whereupon I will conclude my
present epistolary with my loveable salaams to you, my prophet --
and to you all --

                                              "Affectionately
                                               Yours,

                                              "Ed Remenyi."

     From this digression, so naturally incidental to Ingersoll's
appreciation of Remenyi's genius (and vice versa), we turn to
Ingersoll's appreciation of music in general. In so doing, we come,
in logical progression, to his description of the Sixth Symphony
(Beethoven): --

     "This sound-wrought picture of the fields and woods, of
flowering hedge and happy home, where thrushes build and swallows
fly, and mothers sing to babes; this echo of the babbled lullaby of
brooks that, dallying, wind and fall where meadows bare their
daised bosoms to the sun; this joyous mimicry of summer rain, the
laugh of children, and the rhythmic rustle of the whispering
leaves; this strophe of peasant life; this perfect poem of content
and love."

     Although it seem incredible, there was another music which
Ingersoll appreciated far more than that referred to in this and
preceding quotations. That was because there was a far greater
music. The account of his anticipation and discovery of the latter,
-- the story of his musical evolution, -- is as interesting as that
of his intellectual evolution. in Why I Am An Agnostic. He says:--

     "During all my life, of course, like other people, I had heard
what they call music, and I had my favorite pieces, most of those
favorite pieces being favorites on account of association; and
nine-tenths of the music that is beautiful to the world is
beautiful because of the association; not because the music is
good, but because of association. * * *

     "Now, I always felt that there must be some greater music
somewhere, somehow. You know this little music that comes back with
recurring emphasis every two inches or every three-and-a-half
inches; I thought there ought to be music somewhere with a great
sweep from horizon to horizon, and that could fill the great dome
of sound with winged notes like the eagle; if there was not such 


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music, somebody, some time, would make it, and I was waiting for
it. One day I heard it, and I said, 'What music is that?' I felt it
everywhere. I was cold. I was almost hysterical. It answered to my
brain and heart; not only to association, but to all there was of
hope and aspiration, all my future; and they said, 'This is the
music of Wagner.'"

     Richard Wagner was one of the gods on whose altar Ingersoll
reverently laid the offerings of his great and tender soul. Had
Ingersoll been a musician, he would have made as devout a grimage
to Wagner as Wagner made to Beethoven; and we know, that, had
Ingersoll arrived in time at the shrine of Wagner, one of the most
unobtrusive of Americans, as well as one of the most obtrusive of
Englishmen, would have accompanied "the Shakespeare of music" to
the home of the blind composer. For the genius of Wagner, Ingersoll
poured out the same unstinted glorification, which he embellished
the tombs of Shakespeare, Burns, Voltaire, and Lincoln: "Some
things," he said, "are immortal: The plays of Shakespeare, the
marbles of the Greeks, and the music of Wagner." He went even
further than this; he declared it as his belief, that the human
mind had reached its limit in the three departments concerned. It
was his unqualified opinion, notwithstanding his confidence in the
future splendor of our race, that man would never produce "anything
greater, sublimer, than the marbles of the Greeks" nor the dramas
of Shakespeare, and that the time would never come "when any man,
with such instruments of music as we now have, and having nothing
but the common air that we now breathe, will * * * produce greater
pictures in sound, greater music, than Wagner. Never! Never!" And
why did Ingersoll hold this opinion? Because he believed that the
Greek sculptors and Shakespeare and Wagner had expressed in marble,
language, and sound, respectively, all that the heart and brain
ever were, are, or ever will be, capable of appreciating. He
believed, that, just as the air gets from the earth and the ocean
as much only as it is capable of receiving; so there is a limit to
what the soul can receive from the oceans and continents of music:
and he believed that this limit, -- the supreme degree of harmonic
saturation, -- the dew-point of melody, -- was, and forever would
be, Richard Wagner.

     Without a demonstration, it were difficult to believe that
even Ingersoll could have expressed in common words more fitting
and wonderful descriptions of music, -- that he could have woven in
imagination's loom more subtly rare and delicate conceptions, --
than those which have been quoted. But his felicity of description,
always apace with his appreciation, has given us the following
justification of "the music of the future": --

     "In Wagner's music there is a touch of chaos that suggests the
infinite. The melodies seem strange and changing forms, like summer
clouds, and weird harmonies come like sounds from the sea brought
by fitful winds, and others moan like waves on desolate shores, and
mingled with these, are shouts of joy, with sighs and sobs and
ripples of laughter, and the wondrous voices of eternal love."

     After the following poetic vision can we wonder at Ingersoll's
opinion, that Wagner will remain eternally supreme -- that he has
expressed in sound all that the heart and brain of man are capable 
of receiving? --

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     "When I listen to the music of Wagner, I see pictures, forms,
glimpses of the perfect, the swell of a hip, the wave of a breast,
the glance of an eye. I am in the midst of great galleries. Before
me are passing the endless panoramas. I see vast landscapes with
vollies of verdure and vine, with souring crags, snow-covered. I am
on the wide seas, where countless billows burst into the whitecaps
of joy. I am in the depths of caverns roofed with mighty crags,
while through some rent I see the eternal stars. In a moment the
music becomes a river of melody, flowing through some wondrous
land; suddenly it falls in strange chasms, and the mighty cataract
is changed to seven-hued foam."

     If all of Ingersoll's critics could see half as much in fifty
actual landscape-paintings, what a wondrously artistic people we
should be!

     And who, after viewing this picture of the dawn, will not
derive a nobler, grander delight from the music of Wagner? Who will
not see in the latter the glimmer of the morning-star, the
retreating darkness, and catch the light-like shimmer of melody
from the violins? --

     "The music of Wagner has color, and when I hear the violins,
the morning seems to slowly come. A horn puts a star above the
horizon. The night, in the purple hum of the base, wanders away
like some enormous bee across wide fields of dead clover. The light
grows whiter as the violins increase. Colors come from other
instruments, and then the full orchestra floods the world with
day."

     Next to the composer of divine harmonies, -- the sculptor in
sound, -- the painter in viewless air; next to him who, in nature's
every tone, -- from the first faint whisper when April amorous
smiles, to the monstrous thunder-sobs of night, -- tells of the
joys and sorrows, the loves and hatreds, the despair, the hopes,
the aspirations and the triumphs, -- the sunlit shallows and the
murky deeps of human life -- next to him is his interpreter. For,
although the composer is the only one who seeks expression in a
universal tongue, he is the very one who is least often understood.
He has many readers, but few interpreters. Millions read his notes
on paper; but few there are who read them in his heart and brain,
-- who really and truly feel and understand them, -- and whose own
emotion and intellect are the inevitable medium of their perfect
and instinctive interpretation.

     So it is, after all, the interpreter who enables the lover of
music to enjoy the genius of his favorite master; and Ingersoll
regarded Anton Seidl as not only the greatest leader in the world,
but "the noblest, tenderest and the most artistic interpreter" of
Wagner that had ever lived. When this prince of conductors raised
his baton, Ingersoll was enraptured. Of all the Wagnerian numbers,
he was fondest of Tristan und Isolde, that Mississippi of melody."
A gentleman who was intimately associated with Ingersoll told the
author, that, on many occasions, during the rendition of this and
other Wagnerian compositions by Seidl's or chestra, he had seen
"the Colonel" entirely overcome, the tears coursing down his
cheeks. That was because he was a perfectly developed human being, 


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with all the emotions equally responsive. As he naturally and
necessarily laughed at the risible, so he naturally and necessarily
wept at the sad; and "Great music is always sad, because it tells
us the perfect; and such is the difference between what we are and
that which music suggests, that even in the vase of joy we find
some tears." It was the same with him when in the presence of
beauty in any other art. But not to digress: Seidl himself once
said, that, of all the people whom he had met, Ingersoll was the
most sensitive to music. The following incident is here in point.
After a Philharmonic concert, at which selections from Parsifal
were given, and which Ingersoll and family attended, all, including
Seidl, were seated in the Ingersoll home.

     "Everything seemed to be all right tonight, Seidl, except the
harp," remarked Ingersoll, adding as to where, in his judgment, it
should have been placed with relation to the other instruments.
"Great God!" exclaimed the conductor, springing to his feet. "You
are the only man, but one, whom I have ever heard make that
criticism, and that man was Richard Wagner!"

     Aware of suck musical sensitiveness as this on Ingersoll's
part, can we wonder, I ask again, at his opinion that Wagner had
expressed in sound all that the heart and brain of man are capable
of receiving? And can we wonder that he formed with Anton Seidl
another of those friendships which was severed only by death, --
the death of the great interpreter?

     As had been the case on the death of Whitman, Ingersoll was
absent from home; and the cold, laconic click of the telegraph told
him of the death of Seidl. But who would not have recognized,
regardless of its date and signature, the author of the following
telegram, which was sent to Mrs. Seidl from Pittsburgh, on March
30, 1898? --

     "We know that your heart is breaking. Our tears fall not only
for him, but for you. It does not seem possible that the wonderful
brain in which dwelt the greatest harmonies -- the divinest
melodies -- has passed to the silence of death. Do not despair. You
have left a wreath of sacred memories and many friends. We clasp
your empty hands."

     As this message would indicate, and as would naturally be
inferred from all that precedes it, the death of Seidl touched
Ingersoll sadly and profoundly. If we can properly apply here the
well known psychological truth, that an individual suffers to the
same extent that he enjoys, then the death of Seidl, who had for
many years been the very source of some of Ingersoll's keenest
joys, must indeed have been to the latter a deep and bitter sorrow.

     As we have seen, it had for more than twenty years been
Ingersoll's practice to speak, in person, words of love and eulogy
above his dead. On the death of Seidl, however, he was unable to be
present in New York; and there was not time to communicate by mail.
His tribute to the great conductor is therefore notable not only
for being the only one which Ingersoll ever delivered in absentia,
but the only one which he or any one else, perhaps, ever delivered
through the media of the telegraph and a reader.


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     Since 1846, many millions of telegrams have been transmitted;
but it is more than probable that the following, filed at Wheeling,
W. Va., on March 30, 1898, is the most wonderful of them all: --

     "In the noon and zenith of his career, in the flush and glory
of success, Anton Seidl, the greatest orchestral leader of all
time, the perfect interpreter of Wagner, of all his subtlety and
sympathy, his heroism and grandeur, his intensity and limitless
passion, his wondrous harmonies that tell of all there is in life,
and touch the longings and the hopes of every heart, has passed
from the shores of sound to the realm of silence, born by the
mysterious and resistless tide that ever ebbs but never flows.

     "All moods were his. Delicate as the perfume of the first
violet, wild as the storm, he knew the music of all sounds, from
the rustle of leaves, the whisper of hidden springs, to the voices
of the sea.

     "He was the master of music, from the rhythmical strains of
irresponsible joy to the sob of the funeral march.

     "He stood like a king with his scepter in his hand, and we
know that every tone and harmony were in his brain, every passion
in his breast, and yet his sculptured face was calm, as serene as
perfect art. He mingled his soul with the music and gave his heart
to the enchanted air.

     "He appeared to have no limitations, no walls, no chains. He
seemed to follow the pathway of desire, and the marvelous melodies,
the sublime harmonies, were as free as eagles above the clouds with
outstretched wings.

     "He educated, refined, and gave unspeakable joy to many
thousands of his fellow-men. He added to the grace and glory of
life. He spoke a language deeper, more poetic than words -- the
language of the perfect, the language of love and death.

     "But he is voiceless now; a fountain of harmony has ceased.
Its inspired strains have died away in night, and all its murmuring
melodies are strangely still.

     "We will mourn for him, we will honor him, not in words, but
in the language that he used.

     "Anton Seidl is dead. Play the grand funeral march. Envelope
him in music. Let its wailing waves cover him. Let its wild and
mournful winds sigh and moan above him. Give his face to its kisses
and its tears.

     "Play the great funeral march, music as profound as death.
That will express our sorrow -- that will voice our love, our hope,
and that will tell of the life, the triumph, the genius, the death
of Anton Seidl."

     Before the echoes of the last sentence, -- the last crescendo,
-- died away, the conductor of the orchestra raised his baton; and
the first strains of the Siegfried march mingled the sorrow of the 


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greatest composer "for all the dead" with the sorrow of the
greatest orator for Anton Seidl.

                               3.

     Superstition was delivered, for the first time, on Sunday
October 16th, in Chicago. In this lecture, Ingersoll surveyed, with
the intuitive instinct and insight of the poet, -- the analytical
penetration and astronomical scope of the philosopher, -- the
entire realm of thought. With reason as his standard, guide, and
touchstone, he began, as he invariably did, at the foundation, by
specifying the several mental operations which must be classed as
superstition; and he declared: "The foundation of superstition is
ignorance, the superstructure is faith, and the dome is a vain
hope." He then analytically examined, as typical, many of the
superstitions of mankind, -- from that of the simple female, to
that of the learned theologian "of the most authentic creed"; and
he placed all on precisely the same intellectual plane. He found
that there is as much evidence for the belief that the dropping of
a dishcloth from the hand of a woman means "company" as for the
belief that the dropping of a world from the hand of Time means an
Infinite Personality independent of and superior to nature. There
was as much philosophical profundity in the mind of the girl who
counts the leaves of a flower and says; "'One, he comes; two, he
tarries; three, he courts; four, he marries; five, he goes away,'"
as there was in the mind of the theological astronomer who sees in
the glimmer of a distant sun the image of the "Great First Cause."
A shower of petals in the sunlight, from the dimpled hand of a
maiden, was just as convincing as a shower of stars from the hand
of Time, in the dusky dome of night. In nature's infinite realm --
throughout the thoughtless eons past -- nothing had occurred, or
had failed to occur, with reference to man. So far as "design,"
"plan," and "purpose" were concerned, a man and a petal were the
same. Hence, to believe in any form, phase, or manifestation of the
supernatural, was simply superstition.

     But this lecture was something more than a classification, --
something more than a declaration as to what is, and what is not,
superstition. As the latter, born of ignorance, had given us, in
its multifarious forms, all there is of evil; so science, born of
intelligence, had given us all there is of good. We must therefore
abandon superstition and the supernatural, and depend absolutely
upon intelligence and the natural, -- upon reason and science: --

     "Science is the real redeemer. It will put honesty above
hypocrisy; mental veracity above all belief. It will teach the
religion of usefulness. It will destroy bigotry in all its forms.
It will put thoughtful above thoughtless faith. It will give us
philosophers, thinkers and savants, instead of priests, theologians
and saints. It will abolish poverty and crime, and greater,
grander, nobler than all else, it will make the whole world free."

     This, in brief, was the positive element of the lecture, --
its cardinal conclusion. But it contained many minor ones; and of
these, the most startling to theologians, if not the most
important, concerned the Prince of Darkness. It was declared by
Ingersoll, after a most critical examination of the Bible, that, --


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notwithstanding the terrible evils which have always followed, and
which must ever follow, belief in the supernatural, in miracles,
inspiration, signs and wonders, amulets and charms, witchcraft,
evil spirits, and all the rest of superstition's brood, -- the
Christian world could not deny the existence of the Devil; that he
was really "the keystone of the arch"; and that to take him away
was to destroy the entire system.

     "A great many clergymen answered or criticized this statement.
Some of these ministers avowed their belief in the existence of his
Satanic Majesty, while others actually denied his existence; but
some, without stating their own position, said that others
believed, not in the existence of a personal devil, but in the
personification of evil, and that all references to the Devil in
the Scriptures could be explained on the hypothesis that the Devil
thus alluded to was simply a personification of evil."

     That the clergy ever made a greater mistake with reference to
Ingersoll than in assuming this attitude concerning the Devil, is 
very doubtful. "But what were the clergy to do?" may be asked. The
answer is easy. There was but one thing that they wisely and
consistently could have done: they could have kept silence. This
would, indeed, have been "golden." But they had evidently gained no
prudence from My Reviewers Reviewed; from the experiences of Black,
Field, Gladstone, and Manning; nor from those afforded by A
Christmas Sermon and Is Suicide A Sin? They had not learned, even
yet, that there was only one thing for them to do with Ingersoll,
-- leave him entirely alone. Had they done this, they would have
been given "the benefit of the doubt," as far as belief in the
physical existence of the Devil was concerned; the comparatively
few specific remarks on that subject in Superstition would not have
been multiplied; and all would have remained relatively well. As it
transpired, their evasive and shifting criticisms, -- their attempt
literally to "beat the Devil around the stump," -- so amused the
Great Agnostic's sense of justice and mental honesty as to bring
forth one of his most formidable rejoinders. While Superstition was
comparatively brief, and weaker on any given point than it would
have been had its author not been obliged to deal with the many
aspects and phases of the subject, his rejoinder, a lecture
entitled The Devil, was not only comparatively long and exhaustive,
but exclusively devoted to a single aspect of superstition. It was
first delivered on Sunday February 5th (1899), in New York.

     "When I read these answers," said Ingersoll, referring, in the
beginning of this lecture, to the statements of the clergymen
concerning his own remarks on the Devil in Superstition, "I thought
of this line from Heine: 'Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride
on Christ.'"

     Ingersoll then reviewed the history of demonology. He showed
that all the devils, great and small, like all the gods, were
created by mankind that they were inferred from nature by savages
-- sculptured by fear and terror from injurious phenomena. He
showed that Christianity obtained its particular devil from the
Jews, who brought him from Babylon; that the Old Testament teaches
the existence of a real living Devil, not of "a personification of
evil"; that, according to this book, the Devil once lived in 


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Heaven, raised a rebellion, and was cast out; that "it is
impossible to explain him away without at the same time explaining
God away"; that had it not been for the Devil, there would have
been no Christ; that, as a matter of fact, "the religion known as
'Christianity' was invented by God himself to repair in part the
wreck and ruin that had resulted from the Devil's work."

     He declared, that, on the subject of the existence of a real
Devil, "the New Testament is far more explicit than the Old." He
pointed out, that Christ was tempted in the wilderness and on the
mountain, not by "a personification of evil," but by the Devil, who
"knew that Christ was God, and knew that Christ knew that the
tempter was the Devil." "If," said Ingersoll, "Christ was not
tempted by the Devil, then the temptation was born in his own
heart. If that be true, can it be said that he was divine? If these
adders, these vipers, were coiled in his bosom, was he the Son of
God? Was he pure?" Ingersoll also showed, by the gospels, that not
only the writers thereof, but Christ himself, believed in the
existence of a real Devil, and of innumerable little devils; that
the principal occupation of Christ was the casting out of devils;
and that, therefore, if the Devil does not exist, the New Testament
is not inspired, the fall of man is a mistake, the atonement is an
absurdity, and "Christ was either honestly mistaken, insane or an
impostor."

     Of course, I have recited only a small part of the arguments
which the Great Agnostic brought forward on the point concerned;
but even these few will suffice to indicate the utter folly of his
clerical critics in breaking silence -- the consummate ease with
which he refuted their assertion, "that all references to the Devil
in the Scriptures could be explained on the hypothesis that the
Devil thus alluded to was simply a personification of evil," and
with what similar ease he defended, at the same time, the thesis
laid down in Superstition, "that the Christian world could not deny
the existence of the Devil, that the Devil was really the keystone
of the arch, and that to take him away was to destroy the entire
system."

     Following as it did within four months the delivery of
Superstition, this lecture on The Devil affords, in its acutely
reasoned main text, and in the manner in which it was brought to a
close, another typical example, not only of the Great Agnostic's
controversial resourcefulness, but of the versatility of his
genius.

     "What poem was that with which 'the Colonel' closed?" was
asked of one of Ingersoll's associates, who had not heard the
lecture delivered.

     "I do not know," answered the latter, adding, in effect, that
he supposed it to be a quotation from one of the poets.

     The inquirer replied, in substance, that he did not think so;
that the poem consisted of many stanzas; and that they were not
from any poet with whom he was familiar. When Ingersoll was seen,
soon afterwards, he was asked by the associate about the poem in
question. He replied that it was something which he had written 


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that afternoon, before the lecture. It was then recalled that "the
Colonel" was writing for a time, in the afternoon, at a desk in the
room in which the usual conversation was going on among friends and
members of the family. He had written a poem of eighteen stanzas,
-- 108 verses, -- entitling it the Declaration of the Free.
Evidently intended, in the main, as a rebuke for his clerical
critics of Superstition, it is, to that extent, essentially
didactic. Nevertheless, it is by no means destitute of real poetic
quality. Ingersoll preceded its recitation by the sentence, "Let me
now give you the declaration of a creed." I quote the first, fifth,
fifteenth, and last stanzas: --

     "We have no falsehoods to defend --
          We want the facts;
      Our force, our thought, we do not spend
          In vain attacks.
      And we will never meanly try
      To save some fair and pleasing lie.

          *    *    *    *    *
     "We have no master on the land --
          No king in air --
      Without a manicle we stand,
          Without a prayer,
      Without a fear of coming night,
      We seek the truth, we love the light.

          *    *    *    *    *

     "The hands that help are better far
          Than lips that pray.
      Love is the ever gleaming star
          That leads the way,
      That shines, not on vague worlds of bliss,
      But on paradise in this.

          *    *    *    *    *

     "Is there beyond the silent night
          An endless day?
      Is death a door that leads to light?
          We cannot say.
      The tongueless secret locked in fate
      We do not know. -- We hope and wait."

     This was his last poem -- in verse.

                               4.

     On June 2d of this year (1899), he delivered before the
American Free Religious Association, in the Hollis Street Theater,
Boston, an address on What is Religion? many clergymen being
comprised in the audience.

     To a correct knowledge of his mental tendencies throughout his
career as a rationalistic reformer, it is as essential as it is
interesting to note that this, his last public utterance on 


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religion, differs from his first, Progress, chiefly in being far
more radical. Following is its noble and heroic peroration: --

     "Religion can never reform mankind, because religion is
slavery.

     "It is far better to be free, to leave the forts and
barricades of fear, to stand erect and face the future with a
smile.

     "It is far better to give yourself sometimes to negligence, to
drift with wave and tide, with the blind force of the world, to
think and dream, to forget the chains and limitations of the
breathing life, to forget purpose and object, to lounge in the
picture-gallery of the brain,to feel once more the clasp and kisses
of the past, to bring life's morning back, to see again the forms
and faces of the dead, to paint fair pictures for the coming years,
to forget all Gods, their promises and threats, to feel within your
veins life's joyous stream and hear the martial music, the rhythmic
beating of your fearless heart.

     "And then to rouse yourself to do all useful things, to reach
with thought and deed the ideal in your brain, to give your fancies
wings, that they, like chemist bees, may find art's nectar in the
weeds of common things, to look with trained and steady eyes for
facts, to find the subtle threads that join the distant with the
now, to increase knowledge, to take burdens from the week, to
develop the brain, to defend the right, to make a place for the
soul.

     "This is real religion. This is real worship."

     Nine years before, or on June 23, 1890, in an interview
published in The Post-Express of Rochester, N.Y., appeared the
following: --

     "Question. -- If you should write your last sentence on
religious topics, what would be your closing?"

     "Answer. -- I now, in the presence of death, affirm and
reaffirm the truth of all that I have said against the
superstitions of the world. I would say at least that much on the
subject with my last breath."

     In conjunction with this and the preceding quotation, the
following letter to Clinton J. Robins (Dayton, O.) is of
interesting significance, especially if we consider its date: --

                                      "New York, July 13, 1899.

"C.J. Robins, Esq.

     "Dear Sir: First accept my thousand thanks for your good
letter. The only trouble is that it is too flattering. You are
right in thinking that I have not changed. I still believe that all
religions are based on falsehoods and mistakes. I still deny the
existence of the supernatural, and I still say that real religion 
is usefulness. Thanking you again, I remain

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                                             "Yours always,

                                             "R.G. Ingersoll."

     His last public appearance was on June 21st, at Camden, N.J.,
in an argument before the vice-chancellor of that state, in the
case of Russell versus Russell. During this argument, made on
behalf of Mrs. Russell, in connection with the disposition of her
deceased husband's estate, Ingersoll declared, as he had so often
done before, that the love of man for woman, of woman for man, was
"the holiest and the most beautiful" thing in nature -- that it had
given us "all there is of value in the world."

     So, too, his last letter, like his last legal, his last
religious, and his last political address, breathes the same
sentiments that, with steadfast nobility and heroism, he had voiced
throughout his life.

     The letter, addressed to the editor of the Clarion (Mr.
William Matlock), Chester, Ill., is as follows: --

                                         "'Walston,'
                                          "Dobbs' Ferry-on-Hudson,

                                                "July 20, '99.

"Editor Clarion.

     "My Dear Sir: I enclose a clipping from your paper, Of course
you copied it from some exchange.

     "The words attributed to me I never uttered or wrote.

     "'I have one sentiment for soldiers; -- Cheers for the living
and tears for the dead.' This is mine -- but all the rest is by
some one else.

     "It is true that I think the treatment of the Filipinos wrong
-- foolish. It is also true that I do not want the Filipinos if
they do not want us. I believe in expansion -- if it is honest.

     "I want Cuba if the Cubans want us.

     "At the same time, I think our forces should be immediately
withdrawn from Cuba, and the people of that island allowed to
govern themselves. We waged the war against Spain for liberty --
for right -- and we must bear the laurel unstained.

                                      "Yours always,

                                       R.G. Ingersoll."

     Could fate have decreed that the champion of liberty, justice,
and humanity should write his last letter on a more fitting theme?





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                               5.

     It was pointed out in the beginning of Chapter VI, that one of
the most remarkable exceptions which nature made in the case of
Ingersoll was his intellectual vigor and productiveness during "the
afternoon of life." These were undeminishingly manifest until
November 16, 1896. In the evening of that date, however, while
delivering a lecture at Janesville, Wis., he experienced a cerebral
hemorrhage. Its immediate effect was wholly subjective, and did not
prevent the completion of the discourse. He continued to lecture,
on his original itinerary, for a few days, when, at the
solicitation of his family, he went to Chicago and consulted Dr.
Frank Billings, one of the faculty of the Northwestern University
Medical School. Dr. Billings advised him to go home and rest two
months, which he did, resuming his lectures on January 24, 1897.
About this time, he developed angina pectoris, from which he became
an intense sufferer.

     For a number of years, he had been in the practice of spending
the summer at "Walston," a charming country-seat, which, taking its
name from his son-in-law, Mr. Walston B. Brown, is situated on the
highlands of the Hudson, a little more than a mile from the village
of Dobbs' Ferry. At "Walston," beauty seems omnipresent. To the
west, the river lies like a great string of pearls placed by some
huge Wontan on the breast of a sleeping Brunnhilde.

     "Surrounded by pleasant fields and faithful friends, by those
I have loved, I hope to end my days. And this I hope may be the lot
of all who hear my voice," said Ingersoll in 1877. Was the heart of
destiny touched to fulfillment by this tender and generous wish?

     During the night of Thursday and Friday July 20th and 21,
1899, at "Walston," Ingersoll had an attack of acute indigestion,
sleeping very little, and suffering great pain, which he sought to
relieve with nitroglycerine, previously prescribed; but he went to
breakfast in the morning, and afterwards sat on the veranda, as he
was wont to do, reading and talking with the family.

     About ten-thirty he remarked that he would lie down and rest
awhile, and would then return and play pool with his son-in-law.
Mrs. Ingersoll accompanied her husband up-stairs to their bedroom
and remained with him while he slept.

     About eleven-forty-five he arose and sat in his chair to put
on his shoes. Miss Sue Skarkey, a member of the family, entered the
room, followed by Mrs. Ingersoll's sister, Mrs. Sue M. Farrell.

     Mrs. Ingersoll said: "Do not dress, Papa, until after luncheon
-- I will eat up-stairs with you."

     He replied: "Oh, no; I do not want to trouble you."

     Mrs. Farrell then remarked: "How absurd, after the hundreds of
times you have eaten upstairs with her."

     He glanced laughingly at Mrs. Farrell, as she turned to leave
the room; and then Mrs. Ingersoll said: "Why, Papa, your tongue is
coated -- I must give you some medicine."

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     He looked up at her with a smile and said, "I am better now,"
and, as he did so, closed his eyes.

     [NOTE: These were the exact last words said by Robert's
brother Ebon Ingersoll]

     Ingersoll was dead.

     The light of a hemisphere was out.

     But, companioning that of Shakespeare, another star gleamed in
the fadeless galaxy of the immortals.

     Since Ingersoll's death, which was caused by angina pectoris,
it has been learned that, throughout the two and a half years
preceding, he possessed exact knowledge of his physical condition.
He had been told by his physicians that he was likely to die at any
moment; but, earnestly entreating them to tell no one else, he kept
the awful secret from his loved ones. Nor does this alone indicate
his concern for their happiness. Although fully realizing that
death was ever beside him, he was always very cheerful, and when
asked as to his health invariably replied, "All right."

     Seven years before the development of the disease that caused
his death, he said: --

     "It is a great thing to preach philosophy -- for greater to
live it. The highest philosophy accepts the inevitable with a
smile, and greets it as thought it were desired."

     As soon as poignant and overwhelming grief would permit, it
was decided that the funeral should be private and the extreme of
simplicity Accordingly, at four o'clock in the afternoon of Tuesday
July 25th, -- a little more than four day after his death, -- his
family and thirty or forty friends gathered in the room in which he
died, and in which the body, without casket or conventional shroud,
rested upon a bier, -- rested "beneath a wilderness of flowers."
These had come, in mute expression of sympathy, boundless
admiration, and love, from men and women of all stations, in
various parts of America and Europe. And these flowers were to pay,
in voiceless fragrance and beauty, the only tribute not born of the
once warm heart of the dead himself. For those of the living to
whom he had been dearer even than life itself, knew that in his own
immortal words, if in any, there was solace, -- the only solace
that their grief could bear. It was therefore arranged to read
three selections from his works. The first the Declaration of the
Free, was read by Professor John Clark Ridpath; the second, My
Religion, by Major Orlando J. Smith; and the third, A Tribute to
Ebon C. Ingersoll, by Dr. John Lovejoy Elliott. This constituted
the only service or ceremony at "Walston" or elsewhere.

     On the morning of Thursday July 27th, it being realized that
the last look at the idolized dead could nut longer be postponed,
the body was borne by loving hands to a hearse, which, followed by
five carriages containing the family and friends, proceeded, at
eight forty-five, to the railroad-station in Dobbs' Ferry. As the
cortege passed through the village, business was suspended and 


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blinds were drawn. Scores of men along the streets removed their
hats. At the station, the casket and party were transferred to the
funeral car "Kensico" and one coach, both of which (as a special
train) Mr. S. R. Calloway, the president of the road, had begged to
place at the disposal of the family. At the Grand Central Station,
New York, the casket and party were again transferred to hearse and
carriages; the cortege proceeding, via the East Twenty-third Street
ferry and Greenpoint, Long Island, to the Fresh Pond crematory. The
latter was reached at eleven-thirty; and about four in the
afternoon the ashes were received in an urn which the family had
specially provided, and with which they returned to "Walston."

     The urn, resting on a base of porphyry six inches square and
two and a half inches deep, is of rich bronze, nineteen inches
high, and ovoid in form, the largest diameter near the top. From
the lower face upward and backward over the left side twines a
branch of cypress, and around the top on the right side is a sprig
of laurel, both in exquisite bas-relief. On the face is engraved:

       L'urne garde
       La poussiere,
       Le coeur
       Le souvenir

and on the back:

       Robert G. Ingersoll

     The urn guards the ashes, the heart the memory of Robert G. 
Ingersoll. And so the urn does; and -- so does the heart.

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