The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll Volume XII Part 40

In his praise it was impossible to be extravagant. Sculptor, poet and painter exhausted their genius in the portrayal of the peasant, who was in fact the creator of all worlds.

His wisdom excited the wonder, his sufferings the pity and his resurrection and ascension the astonishment of the world.

He was regarded as perfect man and infinite G.o.d. It was believed that in the gospels was found the perfect history of his life, his words and works, his death, his triumph over the grave and his return to heaven.

For many centuries his perfection, his divinity--have been defended by sword and fire.

By the altar was the scaffold--in the cathedral, the dungeon--the chamber of torture.

The story of Christ was told by mothers to their babes. For the most part his story was the beginning and end of education. It was wicked to doubt--infamous to deny.

Heaven was the reward for belief and h.e.l.l the destination of the denier.

All the forces of what we call society, were directed against investigation. Every avenue to the mind was closed. On all the highways of thought, Christians placed posts and boards, and on the boards were the words "No Thoroughfare," "No Crossing." The windows of the soul were darkened--the doors were barred. Light was regarded as the enemy of mankind.

During these Christian years faith was rewarded with position, wealth and power. Faith was the path to fame and honor. The man who investigated was the enemy, the a.s.sa.s.sin of souls. The creed was barricaded on every side, above it were the glories of heaven--below were the agonies of h.e.l.l. The soldiers of the cross were strangers to pity. Only traitors to G.o.d were shocked by the murder of an unbeliever.

The true Christian was a savage. His virtues were ferocious, and compared with his vices were beneficent. The drunkard was a better citizen than the saint. The libertine and prost.i.tute were far nearer human, nearer moral, than those who pleased G.o.d by persecuting their fellows.

The man who thought, and expressed his thoughts, died in a dungeon--on the scaffold or in flames.

The sincere Christian was insane. His one object was to save his soul.

He despised all the pleasures of sense. He believed that his nature was depraved and that his desires were wicked.

He fasted and prayed--deserted his wife and children--inflicted tortures on himself and sought by pain endured to gain the crown. * * *

LIFE.

* Written for Mr. Harrison Grey Fiske, editor of The New York Dramatic Mirror, December 18,1886.

BORN of love and hope, of ecstasy and pain, of agony and fear, of tears and joy--dowered with the wealth of two united hearts--held in happy arms, with lips upon life's drifted font, blue-veined and fair, where perfect peace finds perfect form--rocked by willing feet and wooed to shadowy sh.o.r.es of sleep by siren mother singing soft and low--looking with wonder's wide and startled eyes at common things of life and day--taught by want and wish and contact with the things that touch the dimpled flesh of babes--lured by light and flame, and charmed by color's wondrous robes--learning the use of hands and feet, and by the love of mimicry beguiled to utter speech--releasing prisoned thoughts from crabbed and curious marks on soiled and tattered leaves--puzzling the brain with crooked numbers and their changing, tangled worth--and so through years of alternating day and night, until the captive grows familiar with the chains and walls and limitations of a life.

And time runs on in sun and shade, until the one of all the world is wooed and won, and all the lore of love is taught and learned again.

Again a home is built with the fair chamber wherein faint dreams, like cool and shadowy vales, divide the billowed hours of love. Again the miracle of a birth--the pain and joy, the kiss of welcome and the cradle-song drowning the drowsy prattle of a babe.

And then the sense of obligation and of wrong--pity for those who toil and weep--tears for the imprisoned and despised--love for the generous dead, and in the heart the rapture of a high resolve.

And then ambition, with its l.u.s.t of pelf and place and power, longing to put upon its breast distinction's worthless badge. Then keener thoughts of men, and eyes that see behind the smiling mask of craft--flattered no more by the obsequious cringe of gain and greed--knowing the uselessness of h.o.a.rded gold--of honor bought from those who charge the usury of self-respect--of power that only bends a coward's knees and forces from the lips of fear the lies of praise. Knowing at last the unstudied gesture of esteem, the reverent eyes made rich with honest thought, and holding high above all other things--high as hope's great throbbing star above the darkness of the dead--the love of wife and child and friend.

Then locks of gray, and growing love of other days and half-remembered things--then holding withered hands of those who first held his, while over dim and loving eyes death softly presses down the lids of rest.

And so, locking in marriage vows his children's hands and crossing others on the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of peace, with daughters' babes upon his knees, the white hair mingling with the gold, he journeys on from day to day to that horizon where the dusk is waiting for the night.--At last, sitting by the holy hearth of home as evening's embers change from red to gray, he falls asleep within the arms of her he worshiped and adored, feeling upon his pallid lips love's last and holiest kiss.

Fac-simile of the Last Letter written by Ingersoll

Urn Containing the Ashes of Ingersoll