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.