* Col. Robert G. Ingersoll represents what is intellectually
highest among the whole world's opponents of religion. He
counts theology as the science of a superstition. He decries
religion as it exists, and holds that the broadest thing a
man, or all human nature, can do is to acknowledge ignorance
when it cannot know. He accepts nothing on faith. He is the
American who is forever asking, "Why?"--who demands a reason
and material proof before believing.
As Christianity's corner-stone is faith, he rejects
Christianity, and argues that all men who are broad enough
to know when to narrow their ideas down to fact or
demonstrable theory must reject it. Believe as he does or
not, all Americans must be interested in him. His mind is
marvelous, his tongue is silvern, his logic is invincible--
as logic.
Col. Ingersoll is a shining example of the oft-quoted fact
that, given mental ability, health and industry, a young man
may make for himself whatever place in life he desires and
is fitted to fill. His early advantages were limited, for
his father, a Congregational minister whose field of labor
often changed, was a man of far too small an income to send
his sons to college. Whatever of mental training the young
man had he was obliged to get by reason of his own exertion,
and his splendid triumphs as an orator, and his solid
achievements as a lawyer are all the result of his own
efforts. The only help he had was that which is the common
heritage of all American young men--the chance to fight even
handed for success. It is not surprising, therefore, that
Col. Ingersoll feels a deep interest in every bright young
man of his acquaintance who is struggling manfully for the
glittering prize so brilliantly won by the great Agnostic
himself. He does not believe, however, that the young man
who goes out mto the world nowadays to seek his fortune has
so easy a battle to fight as had the young men of thirty
years ago. In conversation with the writer Col. Ingersoll
spoke earnestly upon this subject.
Col. Ingersoll's views regarding the Bible and Christianity
were not generally understood by the public for some time
after he had become famous as an orator, although he began
to diverge from orthodoxy when quite young, and was as
pronounced an Agnostic when he went into the army, as he is
now.
Col. Ingersoll is an inch less than six feet tall, and
weighs ten more than two hundred pounds. He will be sixty-
one next August, and his hair is snowy. His shoulders are
broad and as straight as they were eighteen years ago when
he electrified a people and place! his own name upon the
list of a nation's greatest orators with his matchless
"Plumed Knight" speech in nominating
James G. Blaine for the presidency. His blue eyes look
straight into yours when he speaks to you, and his sentences
are punctuated by engaging little tricks of facial
expression--now the brow is criss-crossed with the lines of
a frown, sometimes quizzical and sometimes indignant--next,
the smooth-shaven lips break into a curving smile, which may
grow into a broad grin if the point just made were a
humorous one, and this is quite likely to be followed by a
look of sueh intense earnestness that you wonder if he will
ever smile again. And all the time his eyes flash,
illuminating, sometimes anticipatory, glances that add
immensely to the clearness with which the thought he is
expressing is set before you. He delights to tell a story,
and he never tells any but good ones, but--and in this he is
like Lincoln--he is apt to use his stories to drive some
proposition home. This is almost invariably true, even when
he sets out to spin a yarn for the story's simple sake. His
mentality seems to be duplex, quadruplex, multiplex, if you
please--and while his lips and tongue are effectively
delivering the story, his wonderful brain is, seemingly,
unconsciously applying the point of the story to the proving
of a pet theory, and when the tale has been told the verbal
application follows.
His birthplace was Dresden, N. Y. His early boyhood was
passed in New York State and his youth and young manhood in
Illinois, Ohio and Wisconsin.
His handgrasp is hearty and his manner and words are the
very essence of straightforward directness. I called at his
office once when the Colonel was closeted with a person who
wished to retain him in a law case involving a good deal of
money. After a bit I was told that I could see him, and as I
entered he was saying: "The case can't be won, for you are
in the wrong. I don't want it."
"But," pleaded the would-be client, "It seems to me that a
good deal can be done in such a case by the way it is
handled before the jury, and I thought if you were to be the
man I might get a verdict."
"No, sir," was the reply, and the words fell like the lead
of a plumb line; "I won't take it. Good morning, sir."
It has been sometimes said, indulgently, of Col. Ingersoll
that he is indolent, but no one can hold that view who is at
all familiar with him or his work. As a matter of fact, his
industry is phenomenal, though, indeed, it is not carried on
after the fashion of less brainy men. When he has an
important case ahead of him his devotion to the mastery of
its details absorbs him at once and completely. It sometimes
becomes necessary for him to take up a line of chemical
inquiry entirely new to him; again, to elaborate
genealogical researches are necessary; still again, it may
be essential for him to thoroughly inform himself concerning
hitherto uninvestigated local historical records. But
whatever is needful to be studied he studies, and so
thoroughly that his mind becomes saturated with the
knowledge required. And once acquired no sort of information
ever leaves him, for he has a memory quite as marvelous as
any other of his altogether marvelous characteristics.
It is the same when he has an address to prepare. Every
authority that can be consulted upon the subject to be
treated in the address, is consulted, and often the material
that suggests some of the most telling points is one which
no one but Ingersoll himself would think of referring to.
Here again his wonderful memory stands him in good stead for
he has packed away within the convolutions of his brain a
lot of facts that bear upon almost every conceivable branch
of human thought or investigation.
His memory is quite as retentive of the features of a man he
has seen as of other matters; it retains voices also, as a
war time friend of his discovered last summer. It was a busy
day with the Colonel, who had given instructions to his
office boy that under no circumstances was he to be
disturbed; so when his old friend called he was told that
Col. Ingersoll could not see him "But," said the visitor: "I
must see him. I haven't seen him for twenty years; I am
going out of town this afternoon, and I wouldn't miss
talking with him for a few minutes for a good deal of
money."
"Well," said the boy, "he wasn't to be disturbed by
anybody."
At this moment the door of the Colonel's private office
opened, and the Colonel's portly form appeared upon the
scene.
"Why, Maj. Blank," he said, "come in. I did tell the boy I
wouldn't see anybody, but you are more important than the
biggest law case in the world."
The Colonel's memory had retained the sound of the major's
voice, and because of that, the latter was not obliged to
leave New York without seeing and renewing his old
acquaintance.
Col. Ingersoll's retorts are as quick as a flash-light and
as searching. One of them was so startling and so effective
as to give a certain famous long drawn out railroad suit the
nickname. "The Ananias and Sapphira ease." Ingersoll was
speaking and had made certain statements highly damaging to
the other side, in such a way as to thoroughly anger a
member of the opposing counsel, who suddenly interrupted the
speaker with the abrupt and sarcastic remark:
"I suppose the Colonel, in the nature of things, never heard
of the story of Ananias ana Sapphira."
There were those present who expected to witness an angry
outburst on the part of Ingersoll in response to this plain
implication that his statement had not the quality of
veracity, but they were disappointed. Ingersoll didn't even
get angry. He turned slightly, fixed his limpid blue eyes
upon the speaker, and looked cherubically. Then he gently
drawled out.
"Oh, yes, I have, yes, I have. And I've watched the
gentleman who has just spoken all through this case with a
curious Interest. I've been expecting every once in a while
to see him drop dead, but he seems to be all right down to
the present moment."
Ingersoll never gets angry when he is interrupted, even if
it is in the middle of an address or a lecture. A man
interrupted him in Cincinnati once, cutting right into one
of the lecturer's most resonant periods with a yell:
"That's a lie. Bob lngersoll, and you know it."
The audience was in an uproar in an instant, and cries of
"Put him out!" "Throw him down stairs!" and the like were
heard from all parts of the house. Ingersoll stopped talking
for a moment, and held up his hands, smiling.
"Don't hurt the man," he said. "He thinks he is right. But
let me explain this thing for his especial benefit."
Then he reasoned the matter out in language so simple and
plain that no one of any intelligence whatever could fail to
comprehend. The man was not ejected, but sat through the
entire address, and at the close asked the privilege of
begging the lecturer's pardon.
Like most men of genius, Colonel lngersoll is a passionate
lover of music, and the harmonies of Wagner seem to him to
be the very acme of musical expression....
Notwithstanding his thoroughly heretical beliefs or lack of
beliefs, or, as he would say, because of them, Colonel
lngersoll is a very tender-hearted man. No one has ever made
so strong an argument against vivisection in the alleged
interests of science as lngersoll did in a speech a few
years ago. To the presentation of his views against the
refinements of scientific cruelty he brought his most vivid
imagination, his most careful thought and his most
impassioned oratory.
Colonel Ingersoll's popularity with those who know him is
proverbial. The clerks in his offices not only admire him
for his ability and his achievements, but they esteem him
for his kindliness of heart and his invariable courtesy in
his intercourse with them. His offices are located in one of
the buildings devoted to corporations and professional men
on the lower part of Nassau street and consist of three
rooms. The one used by the head of the firm is farthest from
the entrance. All are furnished in solid black walnut. In
the Colonel's room there is a picture of his loved brother
Ebon, and hanging below the frame thereof is the tin sign
that the two brothers hung out for a shingle when they went
into the law business in Peoria. There are also pictures of
a judge or two. The desks in all the rooms are littered with
papers. Books are piled to the ceiling. Everywhere there is
an air of personal freedom. There is no servility either to
clients or the head of the business, but there is everywhere
an informal courtesy somewhat akin to that which is born of
a fueling of great comradeship.
Of the Colonel's ideal home life the world has often been
told. He lives during the winter at his town house in Fifth
Avenue; in the summer at Dobbs Ferry, a charming place a few
miles up the Hudson from New York.--Boston Herald, July,
1894.
A FEW years ago there were many thousand miles of railroads to be built,
a great many towns and cities to be located, constructed and filled;
vast areas of uncultivated land were waiting for the plow, vast forests
the axe, and thousands of mines were longing to be opened. In those days
every young man of energy and industry had a future. The professions
were not overcrowded; there were more patients than doctors, more
litigants than lawyers, more buyers of goods than merchants. The young
man of that time who was raised on a farm got a little education, taught
school, read law or medicine--some of the weaker ones read theology--and
there seemed to be plenty of room, plenty of avenues to success and
distinction.
So, too, a few years ago a political life was considered honorable,
and so in politics there were many great careers. So, hundreds of towns
wanted newspapers, and in each of those towns there was an opening for
some energetic young man. At that time the plant cost but little; a few
dollars purchased the press--the young publisher could get the paper
stock on credit.
Now the railroads have all been built; the canals are finished; the
cities have been located; the outside property has been cut into lots,
and sold and mortgaged many times over. Now it requires great capital
to go into business. The individual is counting for less and less; the
corporation, the trust, for more and more. Now a great merchant employs
hundreds of clerks; a few years ago most of those now clerks would have
been merchants. And so it seems to be in nearly every department of
life. Of course, I do not know what inventions may leap from the brains
of the future; there may be millions and millions of fortunes yet to be
made in that direction, but of that I am not speaking.
So, I think that a few years ago the chances were far more numerous and
favorable to young men who wished to make a name for themselves, and to
succeed in some department of human energy than now.
In savage life a living is very easy to get. Most any savage can hunt
or fish; consequently there are few failures. But in civilized life
competition becomes stronger and sharper; consequently, the percentage
of failures increases, and this seems to be the law. The individual is
constantly counting for less. It may be that, on the average, people
live better than they did formerly, that they have more to eat, drink
and wear; but the individual horizon has lessened; it is not so wide and
cloudless as formerly. So I say that the chances for great fortunes, for
great success, are growing less and less.
I think a young man should do that which is easiest for him to do,
provided there is an opportunity; if there is none, then he should
take the next. The first object of every young man should be to be
self-supporting, no matter in what direction--be independent. He should
avoid being a clerk and he should avoid giving his future into the hands
of any one person. He should endeavor to get a business in which the
community will be his patron, and whether he is to be a lawyer, a doctor
or a day-laborer depends on how much he has mixed mind with muscle.
If a young man imagines that he has an aptitude for public
speaking--that is, if he has a great desire to make his ideas known to
the world--the probability is that the desire will choose the way, time
and place for him to make the effort.
If he really has something to say, there will be plenty to listen. If he
is so carried away with his subject, is so in earnest that he becomes an
instrumentality of his thought--so that he is forgotten by himself; so
that he cares neither for applause nor censure--simply caring to present
his thoughts in the highest and best and most comprehensive way, the
probability is that he will be an orator.
I think oratory is something that cannot be taught. Undoubtedly a man
can learn to be a fair talker. He can by practice learn to present his
ideas consecutively, clearly and in what you may call "form," but there
is as much difference between this and an oration as there is between a
skeleton and a living human being clad in sensitive, throbbing flesh.
There are millions of skeleton makers, millions of people who can
express what may be called "the bones" of a discourse, but not one in a
million who can clothe these bones.
You can no more teach a man to be an orator than you can teach him to be
an artist or a poet of the first class. When you teach him, there is the
same difference between the man who is taught, and the man who is what
he is by virtue of a natural aptitude, that there is between a pump
and a spring--between a canal and a river--between April rain and
water-works. It is a question of capacity and feeling--not of education.
There are some things that you can tell an orator not to do. For
instance, he should never drink water while talking, because the
interest is broken, and for the moment he loses control of his audience.
He should never look at his watch for the same reason. He should never
talk about himself. He should never deal in personalities. He should
never tell long stories, and if he tells any story he should never say
that it is a true story, and that he knew the parties. This makes it a
question of veracity instead of a question of art. He should never clog
his discourse with details. He should never dwell upon particulars--he
should touch universals, because the great truths are for all time.
If he wants to know something, if he wishes to feel something, let him
read Shakespeare. Let him listen to the music of Wagner, of Beethoven,
or Schubert. If he wishes to express himself in the highest and most
perfect form, let him become familiar with the great paintings of the
world--with the great statues--all these will lend grace, will give
movement and passion and rhythm to his words. A great orator puts into
his speech the perfume, the feelings, the intensity of all the great and
beautiful and marvelous things that he has seen and heard and felt. An
orator must be a poet, a metaphysician, a logician--and above all, must
have sympathy with all.