Theodore Parker was an orator. He preached great sermons. His sermons on "Old Age" and "Webster," and his address on "Liberty"
were filled with great thoughts, marvelously expressed. When he dealt with human events, with realities, with things he knew, he was superb. When he spoke of freedom, of duty, of living to the ideal, of mental integrity, he seemed inspired.
Webster I never heard. He had great qualities; force, dignity, clearness, grandeur; but, after all, he worshiped the past. He kept his back to the sunrise. There was no dawn in his brain. He was not creative. He had no spirit of prophecy. He lighted no torch. He was not true to his ideal. He talked sometimes as though his head was among the stars, but he stood in the gutter. In the name of religion he tried to break the will of Stephen Girard--to destroy the greatest charity in all the world; and in the name of the same religion he defended the Fugitive Slave Law. His purpose was the same in both cases. He wanted office. Yet he uttered a few very great paragraphs, rich with thought, perfectly expressed.
Clay I never heard, but he must have had a commanding presence, a chivalric bearing, an heroic voice. He cared little for the past.
He was a natural leader, a wonderful talker--forcible, persuasive, convincing. He was not a poet, not a master of metaphor, but he was practical. He kept in view the end to be accomplished. He was the opposite of Webster. Clay was the morning, Webster the evening. Clay had large views, a wide horizon. He was ample, vigorous, and a little tyrannical.
Benton was thoroughly commonplace. He never uttered an inspired word. He was an intense egoist. No subject was great enough to make him forget himself. Calhoun was a political Calvinist--narrow, logical, dogmatic. He was not an orator. He delivered essays, not orations. I think it was in 1851 that Kossuth visited this country. He was an orator. There was no man, at that time, under our flag, who could speak English as well as he. In the first speech I read of Kossuth's was this line: "Russia is the rock against which the sigh for freedom breaks." In this you see the poet, the painter, the orator.
S. S. Prentiss was an orator, but, with the recklessness of a gamester, he threw his life away. He said profound and beautiful things, but he lacked application. He was uneven, disproportioned, saying ordinary things on great occasions, and now and then, without the slightest provocation, uttering the sublimest and most beautiful thoughts.
In my judgment, Corwin was the greatest orator of them all. He had more arrows in his quiver. He had genius. He was full of humor, pathos, wit, and logic. He was an actor. His body talked.
His meaning was in his eyes and lips. Gov. O. P. Morton of Indiana had the greatest power of statement of any man I ever heard. All the argument was in his statement. The facts were perfectly grouped.
The conclusion was a necessity.
The best political speech I ever heard was made by Gov. Richard J.
Oglesby of Illinois. It had every element of greatness--reason, humor, wit, pathos, imagination, and perfect naturalness. That was in the grand years, long ago. Lincoln had reason, wonderful humor, and wit, but his presence was not good. His voice was poor, his gestures awkward--but his thoughts were profound. His speech at Gettysburg is one of the masterpieces of the world. The word "here" is used four or five times too often. Leave the "heres"
out, and the speech is perfect.
Of course, I have heard a great many talkers, but orators are few and far between. They are produced by victorious nations--born in the midst of great events, of marvelous achievements. They utter the thoughts, the aspirations of their age. They clothe the children of the people in the gorgeous robes of giants. The interpret the dreams. With the poets, they prophesy. They fill the future with heroic forms, with lofty deeds. They keep their faces toward the dawn--toward the ever-coming day.
--_New York Sun_, April, 1898.
JOHN RUSSELL YOUNG AND EXPANSION.
_Question_. You knew John Russell Young, Colonel?
_Answer_. Yes, I knew him well and we were friends for many years.
He was a wonderfully intelligent man--knew something about everything, had read most books worth reading. He was one of the truest friends.
He had a genius for friendship. He never failed to do a favor when he could, and he never forgot a favor. He had the genius of gratitude. His mind was keen, smooth, clear, and he really loved to think. I had the greatest admiration for his character and I was shocked when I read of his death. I did not know that he had been ill. All my heart goes out to his wife--a lovely woman, now left alone with her boy. After all, life is a fearful thing at best. The brighter the sunshine the deeper the shadow.
_Question_. Are you in favor of expansion?
_Answer_. Yes, I have always wanted more--I love to see the Republic grow. I wanted the Sandwich Islands, wanted Porto Rico, and I want Cuba if the Cubans want us. I want the Philippines if the Filipinos want us--I do not want to conquer and enslave those people. The war on the Filipinos is a great mistake--a blunder--almost a crime.
If the President had declared his policy, then, if his policy was right, there was no need of war. The President should have told the Filipinos just exactly what he wanted. It is a small business, after Dewey covered Manila Bay with glory, to murder a lot of half- armed savages. We had no right to buy, because Spain had no right to sell the Philippines. We acquired no rights on those islands by whipping Spain.
_Question_. Do you think the President should have stated his policy in Boston the other day?
_Answer_. Yes, I think it would be better if he would unpack his little budget--I like McKinley, but I liked him just as well before he was President. He is a good man, not because he is President, but because he is a man--you know that real honor must be earned-- people cannot give honor--honor is not alms--it is wages. So, when a man is elected President the best thing he can do is to remain a natural man. Yes, I wish McKinley would brush all his advisers to one side and say his say; I believe his say would be right.
Now, don't change this interview and make me say something mean about McKinley, because I like him. The other day, in Chicago, I had an interview and I wrote it out. In that "interview" I said a few things about the position of Senator Hoar. I tried to show that he was wrong--but I took pains to express by admiration for Senator Hoar. When the interview was published I was made to say that Senator Hoar was a mud-head. I never said or thought anything of the kind. Don't treat me as that Chicago reporter did.
_Question_. What do you think of Atkinson's speech?
_Answer_. Well, some of it is good--but I never want to see the soldiers of the Republic whipped. I am always on our side.
--_The Press_, Philadelphia, February 20, 1899.
PSYCHICAL RESEARCH AND THE BIBLE.*
[* As an incident in the life of any one favored with the privilege, a visit to the home of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll is certain to be recalled as a most pleasant and profitable experience. Although not a sympathizer with the great Agnostic's religious views, yet I have long admired his ability, his humor, his intellectual honesty and courage.
And it was with gratification that I accepted the good offices of a common friend who recently offered to introduce me to the Ingersoll domestic circle in Gramercy Park. Here I found the genial Colonel, surrounded by his children, his grandchildren, and his amiable wife, whose smiling greeting dispelled formality and breathed "Welcome" in every syllable. The family relationship seemed absolutely ideal-- the very walls emitting an atmosphere of art and music, of contentment and companionship, of mutual trust, happiness and generosity.
But my chief desire was to elicit Colonel Ingersoll's personal views on questions related to the New Thought and its attitude on matters on which he is known to have very decided opinions. My request for a private chat was cordially granted. During the conversation that ensued--(the substance of which is presented to the readers of _Mind_ in the following paragraphs, with the Colonel's consent)--I was impressed most deeply, not by the force of his arguments, but by the sincerity of his convictions. Among some of his more violent opponents, who presumably lack other opportunities of becoming known, it is the fashion to accuse Ingersoll of having really no belief in his own opinions.
But, if he convinced me of little else, he certainly, without effort, satisfied my mind that this accusation is a slander. Utterly mistaken in his views he may be; but if so, his errors are more honest than many of those he points out in the King James version of the Bible. If his pulpit enemies could talk with this man by his own fireside, they would pay less attention to Ingersoll himself and more to what he says. They would consider his _meaning_, rather than his motive.
As the Colonel is the most conspicuous denunciator of intolerance and bigotry in America, he has been inevitably the greatest victim of these obstacles to mental freedom.
"To answer Ingersoll" is the pet ambition of many a young clergyman--the older ones have either acquired prudence or are broad enough to concede the utility of even Agnostics in the economy of evolution. It was with the very subject that we began our talk--the uncharitableness of men, otherwise good, in their treatment of those whose religious views differ from their own.]
_Question_. What is your conception of true intellectual hospitality?
As Truth can brook no compromises, has it not the same limitations that surround social and domestic hospitality?
_Answer_. In the republic of mind we are all equals. Each one is sceptered and crowned. Each one is the monarch of his own realm.
By "intellectual hospitality" I mean the right of every one to think and to express his thought. It makes no difference whether his thought is right or wrong. If you are intellectually hospitable you will admit the right of every human being to see for himself; to hear with his own ears, see with his own eyes, and think with his own brain. You will not try to change his thought by force, by persecution, or by slander. You will not threaten him with punishment--here or hereafter. You will give him your thought, your reasons, your facts; and there you will stop. This is intellectual hospitality. You do not give up what you believe to be the truth; you do not compromise. You simply give him the liberty you claim for yourself. The truth is not affected by your opinion or by his. Both may be wrong. For many years the church has claimed to have the "truth," and has also insisted that it is the duty of every man to believe it, whether it is reasonable to him or not. This is bigotry in its basest form. Every man should be guided by his reason; should be true to himself; should preserve the veracity of his soul. Each human being should judge for himself.
The man that believes that all men have this right is intellectually hospitable.
_Question_. In the sharp distinction between theology and religion that is now recognized by many theologians, and in the liberalizing of the church that has marked the last two decades, are not most of your contentions already granted? Is not the "lake of fire and brimstone" an obsolete issue?
_Answer_. There has been in the last few years a great advance.
The orthodox creeds have been growing vulgar and cruel. Civilized people are shocked at the dogma of eternal pain, and the belief in hell has mostly faded away. The churches have not changed their creeds. They still pretend to believe as they always have--but they have changed their tone. God is now a father--a friend. He is no longer the monster, the savage, described in the Bible. He has become somewhat civilized. He no longer claims the right to damn us because he made us. But in spite of all the errors and contradictions, in spite of the cruelties and absurdities found in the Scriptures, the churches still insist that the Bible is _inspired_. The educated ministers admit that the Pentateuch was not written by Moses; that the Psalms were not written by David; that Isaiah was the work of at least three; that Daniel was not written until after the prophecies mentioned in that book had been fulfilled; that Ecclesiastes was not written until the second century after Christ; that Solomon's Song was not written by Solomon; that the book of Esther is of no importance; and that no one knows, or pretends to know, who were the authors of Kings, Samuel, Chronicles, or Job. And yet these same gentlemen still cling to the dogma of inspiration! It is no longer claimed that the Bible is true--but _inspired_.
_Question_. Yet the sacred volume, no matter who wrote it, is a mine of wealth to the student and the philosopher, is it not?
Would you have us discard it altogether?
_Answer_. Inspiration must be abandoned, and the Bible must take its place among the books of the world. It contains some good passages, a little poetry, some good sense, and some kindness; but its philosophy is frightful. In fact, if the book had never existed I think it would have been far better for mankind. It is not enough to give up the Bible; that is only the beginning. The _supernatural_ must be given up. It must be admitted that Nature has no master; that there never has been any interference from without; that man has received no help from heaven; and that all the prayers that have ever been uttered have died unanswered in the heedless air.
The religion of the supernatural has been a curse. We want the religion of usefulness.
_Question_. But have you no use whatever for prayer--even in the sense of aspiration--or for faith, in the sense of confidence in the ultimate triumph of the right?
_Answer_. There is a difference between wishing, hoping, believing, and--knowing. We can wish without evidence or probability, and we can wish for the impossible--for what we believe can never be. We cannot hope unless there is in the mind a possibility that the thing hoped for can happen. We can believe only in accordance with evidence, and we know only that which has been demonstrated. I have no use for prayer; but I do a good deal of wishing and hoping.
I hope that some time the right will triumph--that Truth will gain the victory; but I have no faith in gaining the assistance of any god, or of any supernatural power. I never pray.
_Question_. However fully materialism, as a philosophy, may accord with the merely human _reason_, is it not wholly antagonistic to the instinctive faculties of the mind?
_Answer_. Human reason is the final arbiter. Any system that does not commend itself to the reason must fall. I do not know exactly what you mean by _materialism_. I do not know what matter is. I am satisfied, however, that without matter there can be no force, no life, no thought, no reason. It seems to me that mind is a form of force, and force cannot exist apart from matter. If it is said that God created the universe, then there must have been a time when he commenced to create. If at that time there was nothing in existence but himself, how could he have exerted any force? Force cannot be exerted except in opposition to force. If God was the only existence, force could not have been exerted.
_Question_. But don't you think, Colonel, that the materialistic philosophy, even in the light of your own interpretation, is essentially pessimistic?
_Answer_. I do not consider it so. I believe that the pessimists and the optimists are both right. This is the worst possible world, and this is the best possible world--because it is as it must be.
The present is the child, and the necessary child, of all the past.