Question. Do you consider marriage a contract or a sacrament?

Answer. Marriage is the most important contract that human beings can make. No matter whether it is called a contract or a sacrament, it remains the same. A true marriage is a natural concord or agreement of souls—a harmony in which discord is not even imagined. It is a mingling so perfect that only one seems to exist. All other considerations are lost. The present seems eternal. In this supreme moment there is no shadow, or the shadow is as luminous as light.

When two beings thus love, thus united, this is the true marriage of soul and soul. The idea of contract is lost. Duty and obligation are instantly changed into desire and joy, and two lives, like uniting streams, flow on as one.

This is real marriage.

Now, if the man turns out to be a wild beast, if he destroys the happiness of the wife, why should she remain his victim?

If she wants a divorce, she should have it. The divorce will not hurt God or the community. As a matter of fact, it will save a life.

No man not poisoned by superstition will object to the release of an abused wife. In such a case only savages can object to divorce. The man who wants courts and legislatures to force a woman to live with him is a monster.

Question. Do you believe that the divorced should be allowed to marry again?

Answer. Certainly. Has the woman whose rights have been outraged no right to build another home? Must this woman, full of kindness, affection and health, be chained until death releases her? Is there no future for her? Must she be an outcast forever? Can she never sit by her own hearth, with the arms of her children about her neck, and by her side a husband who loves and protects her?

There are no two sides to this question.

All human beings should be allowed to correct their mistakes. If the wife has flagrantly violated the contract of marriage, the husband should be given a divorce. If the wife wants a divorce, if she loathes her husband, if she no longer loves him, then the divorce should be granted.

It is immoral for a woman to live as the wife of a man whom she abhors. The home should be pure. Children should be well-born. Their parents should love one another.

Marriages are made by men and women, not by society, not by the state, not by the church, not by the gods. Nothing is moral, that does not tend to the well-being of sentient beings.

The good home is the unit of good government. The hearthstone is the corner-stone of civilization. Society is not interested in the preservation of hateful homes. It is not to the interest of society that good women should be enslaved or that they should become mothers by husbands whom they hate.

Most of the laws about divorce are absurd or cruel, and ought to be repealed.

—The Herald, New York, February, 1897.

MUSIC, NEWSPAPERS, LYNCHING AND ARBITRATION.

Question. How do you enjoy staying in Chicago?

Answer. Well, I am about as happy as a man can be when he is away from home. I was at the opera last night. I am always happy when I hear the music of Wagner interpreted by such a genius as Seidl. I do not believe there is a man in the world who has in his brain and heart more of the real spirit of Wagner than Anton Seidl. He knows how to lead, how to phrase and shade, how to rush and how to linger, and to express every passion and every mood. So I was happy last night to hear him. Then I heard Edouard de Reszke, the best of bass singers, with tones of a great organ, and others soft and liquid, and Jean de Reszke, a great tenor, who sings the "Swan Song" as though inspired; and I liked Bispham, but hated his part. He is a great singer; so is Mme. Litvinne.

So, I can say that I am enjoying Chicago. In fact, I always did. I was here when the town was small, not much more than huts and hogs, lumber and mud; and now it is one of the greatest of cities. It makes me happy just to think of the difference. I was born the year Chicago was incorporated. In my time matches were invented. Steam navigation became really useful. The telegraph was invented. Gas was discovered and applied to practical uses, and electricity was made known in its practical workings to mankind. Thus, it is seen the world is progressing; men are becoming civilized. But the process of civilization even now is slow. In one or two thousand years we may hope to see a vast improvement in man's condition. We may expect to have the employer so far civilized that he will not try to make money for money's sake, but in order that he may apply it to good uses, to the amelioration of his fellow-man's condition. We may also expect the see the workingman, the employee, so far civilized that he will know it is impossible and undesirable for him to attempt to fix the wages paid by his employer. We may in a thousand or more years reasonably expect that the employee will be so far civilized and become sufficiently sensible to know that strikes and threats and mob violence can never improve his condition. Altruism is nonsense, craziness.

Question. Is Chicago as liberal, intellectually, as New York?

Answer. I think so. Of course you will find thousands of free, thoughtful people in New York—people who think and want others to do the same. So, there are thousands of respectable people who are centuries behind the age. In other words, you will find all kinds. I presume the same is true of Chicago. I find many liberal people here, and some not quite so liberal.

Some of the papers here seem to be edited by real pious men. On last Tuesday the Times-Herald asked pardon of its readers for having given a report of my lecture. That editor must be pious. In the same paper, columns were given to the prospective prize- fight at Carson City. All the news about the good Corbett and the orthodox Fitzsimmons—about the training of the gentlemen who are going to attack each others' jugulars and noses; who are expected to break jaws, blacken eyes, and peel foreheads in a few days, to settle the question of which can bear the most pounding. In this great contest and in all its vulgar details, the readers of the Times-Herald are believed by the editor of that religious daily to take great interest.

The editor did not ask the pardon of his readers for giving so much space to the nose-smashing sport. No! He knew that would fill their souls with delight, and, so knowing, he reached the correct conclusion that such people would not enjoy anything I had said. The editor did a wise thing and catered to a large majority of his readers. I do not think that we have as religious a daily paper in New York as the Times-Herald. So the editor of the Times- Herald took the ground that men with little learning, in youth, might be agnostic, but as they grew sensible they would become orthodox. When he wrote that he was probably thinking of Humboldt and Darwin, of Huxley and Haeckel. May be Herbert Spencer was in his mind, but I think that he must have been thinking of a few boys in his native village.

Question. What do you think about prize-fighting anyway?

Answer. Well, I think that prize-fighting is worse, if possible, than revival meetings. Next to fighting to kill, as they did in the old Roman days, I think the modern prize-fight is the most disgusting and degrading of exhibitions. All fights, whether cock- fights, bull-fights or pugilistic encounters, are practiced and enjoyed only by savages. No matter what office they hold, what wealth or education they have, they are simply savages. Under no possible circumstances would I witness a prize-fight or a bull- fight or a dog-fight. The Marquis of Queensbury was once at my house, and I found his opinions were the same as mine. Everyone thinks that he had something to do with the sport of prize-fighting, but he did not, except to make some rules once for a college boxing contest. He told me that he never saw but one prize-fight in his life, and that it made him sick.

Question. How are you on the arbitration treaty?

Answer. I am for it with all my heart. I have read it, and read it with care, and to me it seems absolutely fair. England and America should set an example to the world. The English-speaking people have reason enough and sense enough, I hope, to settle their differences by argument—by reason. Let us get the wild beast out of us. Two great nations like England and America appealing to force, arguing with shot and shell! What is education worth? Is what we call civilization a sham? Yes, I believe in peace, in arbitration, in settling disputes like reasonable, human beings. All that war can do is to determine who is the stronger. It throws no light on any question, addresses no argument. There is a point to a bayonet, but no logic. After the war is over the victory does not tell which nation was right. Civilized men take their differences to courts or arbitrators. Civilized nations should do the same. There ought to be an international court.

Let every man do all he can to prevent war—to prevent the waste, the cruelties, the horrors that follow every flag on every field of battle. It is time that man was human—time that the beast was out of his heart.

Question. What do you think of McKinley's inaugural?

Answer. It is good, honest, clear, patriotic and sensible. There is one thing in it that touched me; I agree with him that lynching has to be stopped. You see that now we are citizens of the United States, not simply of the State in which we happen to live. I take the ground that it is the business of the United States to protect its citizens, not only when they are in some other country, but when they are at home. The United States cannot discharge this obligation by allowing the States to do as they please. Where citizens are being lynched the Government should interfere. If the Governor of some barbarian State says that he cannot protect the lives of citizens, then the United States should, if it took the entire Army and Navy.

Question. What is your opinion of charity organizations?

Answer. I think that the people who support them are good and generous—splendid—but I have a poor opinion of the people in charge. As a rule, I think they are cold, impudent and heartless. There is too much circumlocution, or too many details and too little humanity. The Jews are exceedingly charitable. I think that in New York the men who are doing the most for their fellow-men are Jews. Nathan Strauss is trying to feed the hungry, warm the cold, and clothe the naked. For the most part, organized charities are, I think, failures. A real charity has to be in the control of a good man, a real sympathetic, a sensible man, one who helps others to help themselves. Let a hungry man go to an organized society and it requires several days to satisfy the officers that the man is hungry. Meanwhile he will probably starve to death.

Question. Do you believe in free text-books in the public schools?

Answer. I do not care about the text-book question. But I am in favor of the public school. Nothing should be taught that somebody does not know. No superstitions—nothing but science.

Question. There has been a good deal said lately about your suicide theology, Colonel. Do you still believe that suicide is justifiable?

Answer. Certainly. When a man is useless to himself and to others he has a right to determine what he will do about living. The only thing to be considered is a man's obligation to his fellow- beings and to himself. I don't take into consideration any supernatural nonsense. If God wants a man to stay here he ought to make it more comfortable for him.

Question. Since you expounded your justification of suicide, Colonel, I believe you have had some cases of suicide laid at your door?

Answer. Oh, yes. Every suicide that has happened since that time has been charged to me. I don't know how the people account for the suicides before my time. I have not yet heard of my being charged with the death of Cato, but that may yet come to pass. I was reading the other day that the rate of suicide in Germany is increasing. I suppose my article has been translated into German.

Question. How about lying, Colonel? Is it ever right to lie?

Answer. Of course, sometimes. In war when a man is captured by the enemy he ought to lie to them to mislead them. What we call strategy is nothing more than lies. For the accomplishment of a good end, for instance, the saving of a woman's reputation, it is many times perfectly right to lie. As a rule, people ought to tell the truth. If it is right to kill a man to save your own life it certainly ought to be right to fool him for the same purpose. I would rather be deceived than killed, wouldn't you?

—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, Illinois, March, 1897.

A VISIT TO SHAW'S GARDEN.

Question. I was told that you came to St. Louis on your wedding trip some thirty years ago and went to Shaw's Garden?

Answer. Yes; we were married on the 13th of February, 1862. We were here in St. Louis, and we did visit Shaw's Garden, and we thought it perfectly beautiful. Afterward we visited the Kew Gardens in London, but our remembrance of Shaw's left Kew in the shade.

Of course, I have been in St. Louis many times, my first visit being, I think, in 1854. I have always liked the town. I was acquainted at one time with a great many of your old citizens. Most of them have died, and I know but few of the present generation. I used to stop at the old Planter's House, and I was there quite often during the war. In those days I saw Hackett as Falstaff, the best Falstaff that ever lived. Ben de Bar was here then, and the Maddern sisters, and now the daughter of one of the sisters, Minnie Maddern Fiske, is one of the greatest actresses in the world. She has made a wonderful hit in New York this season. And so the ebb and flow of life goes on—the old pass and the young arrive.

"Death and progress!" It may be that death is, after all, a great blessing. Maybe it gives zest and flavor to life, ardor and flame to love. At the same time I say, "long life" to all my friends.

I want to live—I get great happiness out of life. I enjoy the company of my friends. I enjoy seeing the faces of the ones I love. I enjoy art and music. I love Shakespeare and Burns; love to hear the music of Wagner; love to see a good play. I take pleasure in eating and sleeping. The fact is, I like to breathe.

I want to get all the happiness out of life that I can. I want to suck the orange dry, so that when death comes nothing but the peelings will be left, and so I say: "Long life!"

—The Republic, St. Louis, April 11, 1897.

THE VENEZUELAN BOUNDARY DISCUSSION AND THE WHIPPING-POST.

Question. What is your opinion as to the action of the President on the Venezuelan matter?

Answer. In my judgment, the President acted in haste and without thought. It may be said that it would have been well enough for him to have laid the correspondence before Congress and asked for an appropriation for a commission to ascertain the facts, to the end that our Government might intelligently act. There was no propriety in going further than that. To almost declare war before the facts were known was a blunder—almost a crime. For my part, I do not think the Monroe doctrine has anything to do with the case. Mr. Olney reasons badly, and it is only by a perversion of facts, and an exaggeration of facts, and by calling in question the motives of England that it is possible to conclude that the Monroe doctrine has or can have anything to do with the controversy. The President went out of his way to find a cause of quarrel. Nobody doubts the courage of the American people, and we for that reason can afford to be sensible and prudent. Valor and discretion should go together. Nobody doubts the courage of England.

America and England are the leading nations, and in their keeping, to a great extent, is the glory of the future. They should be at peace. Should a difference arise it should be settled without recourse to war.

Fighting settles nothing but the relative strength. No light is thrown on the cause of the conflict—on the question or fact that caused the war.

Question. Do you think that there is any danger of war?

Answer. If the members of Congress really represent the people, then there is danger. But I do not believe the people will really want to fight about a few square miles of malarial territory in Venezuela—something in which they have no earthly or heavenly interest. The people do not wish to fight for fight's sake. When they understand the question they will regard the administration as almost insane.

The message has already cost us more than the War of 1812 or the Mexican war, or both. Stocks and bonds have decreased in value several hundred millions, and the end is not yet. It may be that it will, on account of the panic, be impossible for the Government to maintain the gold standard—the reserve. Then gold would command a premium, the Government would be unable to redeem the greenbacks, and the result would be financial chaos, and all this the result of Mr. Cleveland's curiosity about a boundary line between two countries, in neither of which we have any interest, and this curiosity has already cost us more than both countries, including the boundary line, are worth.

The President made a great mistake. So did the House and Senate, and the poor people have paid a part of the cost.

Question. What is your opinion of the Gerry Whipping Post bill?

Answer. I see that it has passed the Senate, and yet I think it is a disgrace to the State. How the Senators can go back to torture, to the Dark Ages, to the custom of savagery, is beyond belief. I hope that the House is nearer civilized, and that the infamous bill will be defeated. If, however, the bill should pass, then I hope Governor Morton will veto it.

Nothing is more disgusting, more degrading, than the whipping-post. It degrades the whipped and the whipper. It degrades all who witness the flogging. What kind of a person will do the whipping? Men who would apply the lash to the naked backs of criminals would have to be as low as the criminals, and probably a little lower.

The shadow of the whipping-post does not fall on any civilized country, and never will. The next thing we know Mr. Gerry will probably introduce some bill to brand criminals on the forehead or cut off their ears and slit their noses. This is in the same line, and is born of the same hellish spirit. There is no reforming power in torture, in bruising and mangling the flesh.

If the bill becomes a law, I hope it will provide that the lash shall be applied by Mr. Gerry and his successors in office. Let these pretended enemies of cruelty enjoy themselves. If the bill passes, I presume Mr. Gerry could get a supply of knouts from Russia, as that country has just abolished the whipping-post.

—The Journal, New York, December 24, 1895.

COLONEL SHEPARD'S STAGE HORSES.*

[* One of Colonel Shepard's equine wrecks was picked up on Fifth avenue yesterday by the Prevention of Cruelty Society, and was laid up for repairs. The horse was about twenty-eight years old, badly foundered, and its leg was cut and bleeding. It was the leader of three that had been hauling a Fifth avenue stage, and, according to the Society's agents, was in about as bad a condition as a horse could be and keep on his feet. The other two horses were little better, neither of them being fit to drive.

Colonel Shepard's scrawny nags have long been an eyesore to Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll, who is compelled to see them from his windows at number 400 Fifth avenue. He said last night: ]

It might not be in good taste for me to say anything about Colonel Shepard's horses. He might think me prejudiced. But I am satisfied horses cannot live on faith or on the substance of things hoped for. It is far better for the horse, to feed him without praying, than to pray without feeding him. It is better to be kind even to animals, than to quote Scripture in small capitals. Now, I am not saying anything against Colonel Shepard. I do not know how he feeds his horses. If he is as good and kind as he is pious, then I have nothing to say. Maybe he does not allow the horses to break the Sabbath by eating. They are so slow that they make one think of a fast. They put me in mind of the Garden of Eden—the rib story. When I watch them on the avenue I, too, fall to quoting Scripture, and say, "Can these dry bones live?" Still, I have a delicacy on this subject; I hate to think about it, and I think the horses feel the same way.

—Morning Advertiser, New York, January 21, 1892.

A REPLY TO THE REV. L. A. BANKS.

Question. Have you read the remarks made about you by the Rev. Mr. Banks, and what do you think of what he said?

Answer. The reverend gentleman pays me a great compliment by comparing me to a circus. Everybody enjoys the circus. They love to see the acrobats, the walkers on the tight rope, the beautiful girls on the horses, and they laugh at the wit of the clowns. They are delighted with the jugglers, with the music of the band. They drink the lemonade, eat the colored popcorn and laugh until they nearly roll off their seats. Now the circus has a few animals so that Christians can have an excuse for going. Think of the joy the circus gives to the boys and girls. They look at the show bills, see the men and women flying through the air, bursting through paper hoops, the elephants standing on their heads, and the clowns, in curious clothes, with hands on their knees and open mouths, supposed to be filled with laughter.

All the boys and girls for many miles around know the blessed day. They save their money, obey their parents, and when the circus comes they are on hand. They see the procession and then they see the show. They are all happy. No sermon ever pleased them as much, and in comparison even the Sunday school is tame and dull.

To feel that I have given as much joy as the circus fills me with pleasure. What chance would the Rev. Dr. Banks stand against a circus?

The reverend gentleman has done me a great honor, and I tender him my sincere thanks.

Question. Dr. Banks says that you write only one lecture a year, while preachers write a brand new one every week—that if you did that people would tire of you. What have you to say to that?

Answer. It may be that great artists paint only one picture a year, and it may be that sign painters can do several jobs a day. Still, I would not say that the sign painters were superior to the artists. There is quite a difference between a sculptor and a stone-cutter.

There are thousands of preachers and thousands and thousands of sermons preached every year. Has any orthodox minister in the year 1898 given just one paragraph to literature? Has any orthodox preacher uttered one great thought, clothed in perfect English that thrilled the hearers like music—one great strophe that became one of the treasures of memory?

I will make the question a little clearer. Has any orthodox preacher, or any preacher in an orthodox pulpit uttered a paragraph of what may be called sculptured speech since Henry Ward Beecher died? I do not wonder that the sermons are poor. Their doctrines have been discussed for centuries. There is little chance for originality; they not only thresh old straw, but the thresh straw that has been threshed a million times—straw in which there has not been a grain of wheat for hundreds of years. No wonder that they have nervous prostration. No wonder that they need vacations, and no wonder that their congregations enjoy the vacations as keenly as the ministers themselves. Better deliver a real good address fifty-two times than fifty-two poor ones—just for the sake of variety.

Question. Dr. Banks says that the tendency at present is not toward Agnosticism, but toward Christianity. What is your opinion?

Answer. When I was a boy "Infidels" were very rare. A man who denied the inspiration of the Bible was regarded as a monster. Now there are in this country millions who regard the Bible as the work of ignorant and superstitious men. A few years ago the Bible was the standard. All scientific theories were tested by the Bible. Now science is the standard and the Bible is tested by that.

Dr. Banks did not mention the names of the great scientists who are or were Christians, but he probably thought of Laplace, Humboldt, Haeckel, Huxley, Spencer, Tyndall, Darwin, Helmholtz and Draper. When he spoke of Christian statesmen he likely thought of Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Paine and Lincoln—or he may have thought of Pierce, Fillmore and Buchanan.

But, after all, there is no argument in names. A man is not necessarily great because he holds office or wears a crown or talks in a pulpit. Facts, reasons, are better than names. But it seems to me that nothing can be plainer than that the church is losing ground—that the people are discarding the creeds and that superstition has passed the zenith of its power.

Question. Dr. Banks says that Christ did not mention the Western Hemisphere because God does nothing for men that they can do for themselves. What have you to say?

Answer. Christ said nothing about the Western Hemisphere because he did not know that it existed. He did not know the shape of the earth. He was not a scientist—never even hinted at any science— never told anybody to investigate—to think. His idea was that this life should be spent in preparing for the next. For all the evils of this life, and the next, faith was his remedy.

I see from the report in the paper that Dr. Banks, after making the remarks about me preached a sermon on "Herod the Villain in the Drama of Christ." Who made Herod? Dr. Banks will answer that God made him. Did God know what Herod would do? Yes. Did he know that he would cause the children to be slaughtered in his vain efforts to kill the infant Christ? Yes. Dr. Banks will say that God is not responsible for Herod because he gave Herod freedom. Did God know how Herod would use his freedom? Did he know that he would become the villain in the drama of Christ? Yes. Who, then, is really responsible for the acts of Herod?

If I could change a stone into a human being, and if I could give this being freedom of will, and if I knew that if I made him he would murder a man, and if with that knowledge I made him, and he did commit a murder, who would be the real murderer?

Will Dr. Banks in his fifty-two sermons of next year show that his God is not responsible for the crimes of Herod?

No doubt Dr. Banks is a good man, and no doubt he thinks that liberty of thought leads to hell, and honestly believes that all doubt comes from the Devil. I do not blame him. He thinks as he must. He is a product of conditions.

He ought to be my friend because I am doing the best I can to civilize his congregation.

—The Plain Dealer, Cleveland, Ohio, 1898.

CUBA—ZOLA AND THEOSOPHY.

Question. What do you think, Colonel, of the Cuban question?

Answer. What I know about this question is known by all. I suppose that the President has information that I know nothing about. Of course, all my sympathies are with the Cubans. They are making a desperate—an heroic struggle for their freedom. For many years they have been robbed and trampled under foot. Spain is, and always has been, a terrible master—heartless and infamous. There is no language with which to tell what Cuba has suffered. In my judgment, this country should assist the Cubans. We ought to acknowledge the independence of that island, and we ought to feed the starving victims of Spain. For years we have been helping Spain. Cleveland did all he could to prevent the Cubans from getting arms and men. This was a criminal mistake—a mistake that even Spain did not appreciate. All this should instantly be reversed, and we should give aid to Cuba. The war that Spain is waging shocks every civilized man. Spain has always been the same. In Holland, in Peru, in Mexico, she was infinitely cruel, and she is the same to-day. She loves to torture, to imprison, to degrade, to kill. Her idea of perfect happiness is to shed blood. Spain is a legacy of the Dark Ages. She belongs to the den, the cave period. She has no business to exist. She is a blot, a stain on the map of the world. Of course there are some good Spaniards, but they are not in control.

I want Cuba to be free. I want Spain driven from the Western World. She has already starved five hundred thousand Cubans—poor, helpless non-combatants. Among the helpless she is like a hyena—a tiger among lambs. This country ought to stop this gigantic crime. We should do this in the name of humanity—for the sake of the starving, the dying.

Question. Do you think we are going to have war with Spain?

Answer. I do not think there will be war. Unless Spain is insane, she will not attack the United States. She is bankrupt. No nation will assist her. A civilized nation would be ashamed to take her hand, to be her friend. She has not the power to put down the rebellion in Cuba. How then can she hope to conquer this country? She is full of brag and bluster. Of course she will play her hand for all it is worth, so far as talk goes. She will double her fists and make motions. She will assume the attitude of war, but she will never fight. Should she commence hostilities, the war would be short. She would lose her navy. The little commerce she has would be driven from the sea. She would drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation and disgrace. I do not believe that Spain is insane enough to fire upon our flag. I know that there is nothing too mean, too cruel for her to do, but still she must have sense enough to try and save her own life. No, I think there will be no war, but I believe that Cuba will be free. My opinion is that the Maine was blown up from the outside—blown up by Spanish officers, and I think the report of the Board will be to that effect. Such a crime ought to redden even the cheeks of Spain. As soon as this fact is known, other nations will regard Spain with hatred and horror. If the Maine was destroyed by Spain we will ask for indemnity. The people insist that the account be settled and at once. Possibly we may attack Spain. There is the only danger of war. We must avenge that crime. The destruction of two hundred and fifty-nine Americans must be avenged. Free Cuba must be their monument. I hope for the sake of human nature that the Spanish did not destroy the Maine. I hope it was the result of an accident. I hope there is to be no war, but Spain must be driven from the New World.

Question. What about Zola's trial and conviction?

Answer. It was one of the most infamous trials in the history of the world. Zola is a great man, a genius, the best man in France. His trial was a travesty on justice. The judge acted like a bandit. The proceedings were a disgrace to human nature. The jurors must have been ignorant beasts. The French have disgraced themselves. Long live Zola.

Question. Having expressed yourself less upon the subject of Theosophy than upon other religious beliefs, and as Theosophy denies the existence of a God as worshiped by Christianity, what is your idea of the creed?

Answer. Insanity. I think it is a mild form of delusion and illusion; vague, misty, obscure, half dream, mixed with other mistakes and fragments of facts—a little philosophy, absurdity— a few impossibilities—some improbabilities—some accounts of events that never happened—some prophecies that will not come to pass— a structure without foundation. But the Theosophists are good people; kind and honest. Theosophy is based on the supernatural and is just as absurd as the orthodox creeds.

—The Courier-Journal, Louisville, Ky., February, 1898.

HOW TO BECOME AN ORATOR.

Question. What advice would you give to a young man who was ambitious to become a successful public speaker or orator?

Answer. In the first place, I would advise him to have something to say—something worth saying—something that people would be glad to hear. This is the important thing. Back of the art of speaking must be the power to think. Without thoughts words are empty purses. Most people imagine that almost any words uttered in a loud voice and accompanied by appropriate gestures, constitute an oration. I would advise the young man to study his subject, to find what others had thought, to look at it from all sides. Then I would tell him to write out his thoughts or to arrange them in his mind, so that he would know exactly what he was going to say. Waste no time on the how until you are satisfied with the what. After you know what you are to say, then you can think of how it should be said. Then you can think about tone, emphasis, and gesture; but if you really understand what you say, emphasis, tone, and gesture will take care of themselves. All these should come from the inside. They should be in perfect harmony with the feelings. Voice and gesture should be governed by the emotions. They should unconsciously be in perfect agreement with the sentiments. The orator should be true to his subject, should avoid any reference to himself.

The great column of his argument should be unbroken. He can adorn it with vines and flowers, but they should not be in such profusion as to hide the column. He should give variety of episode by illustrations, but they should be used only for the purpose of adding strength to the argument. The man who wishes to become an orator should study language. He should know the deeper meaning of words. He should understand the vigor and velocity of verbs and the color of adjectives. He should know how to sketch a scene, to paint a picture, to give life and action. He should be a poet and a dramatist, a painter and an actor. He should cultivate his imagination. He should become familiar with the great poetry and fiction, with splendid and heroic deeds. He should be a student of Shakespeare. He should read and devour the great plays. From Shakespeare he could learn the art of expression, of compression, and all the secrets of the head and heart.

The great orator is full of variety—of surprises. Like a juggler, he keeps the colored balls in the air. He expresses himself in pictures. His speech is a panorama. By continued change he holds the attention. The interest does not flag. He does not allow himself to be anticipated. A picture is shown but once. So, an orator should avoid the commonplace. There should be no stuffing, no filling. He should put no cotton with his silk, no common metals with his gold. He should remember that "gilded dust is not as good as dusted gold." The great orator is honest, sincere. He does not pretend. His brain and heart go together. Every drop of his blood is convinced. Nothing is forced. He knows exactly what he wishes to do—knows when he has finished it, and stops.

Only a great orator knows when and how to close. Most speakers go on after they are through. They are satisfied only with a "lame and impotent conclusion." Most speakers lack variety. They travel a straight and dusty road. The great orator is full of episode. He convinces and charms by indirection. He leaves the road, visits the fields, wanders in the woods, listens to the murmurs of springs, the songs of birds. He gathers flowers, scales the crags and comes back to the highway refreshed, invigorated. He does not move in a straight line. He wanders and winds like a stream.

Of course, no one can tell a man what to do to become an orator. The great orator has that wonderful thing called presence. He has that strange something known as magnetism. He must have a flexible, musical voice, capable of expressing the pathetic, the humorous, the heroic. His body must move in unison with his thought. He must be a reasoner, a logician. He must have a keen sense of humor —of the laughable. He must have wit, sharp and quick. He must have sympathy. His smiles should be the neighbors of his tears. He must have imagination. He should give eagles to the air, and painted moths should flutter in the sunlight.

While I cannot tell a man what to do to become an orator, I can tell him a few things not to do. There should be no introduction to an oration. The orator should commence with his subject. There should be no prelude, no flourish, no apology, no explanation. He should say nothing about himself. Like a sculptor, he stands by his block of stone. Every stroke is for a purpose. As he works the form begins to appear. When the statue is finished the workman stops. Nothing is more difficult than a perfect close. Few poems, few pieces of music, few novels end well. A good story, a great speech, a perfect poem should end just at the proper point. The bud, the blossom, the fruit. No delay. A great speech is a crystallization in its logic, an efflorescence in its poetry.

I have not heard many speeches. Most of the great speakers in our country were before my time. I heard Beecher, and he was an orator. He had imagination, humor and intensity. His brain was as fertile as the valleys of the tropics. He was too broad, too philosophic, too poetic for the pulpit. Now and then, he broke the fetters of his creed, escaped from his orthodox prison, and became sublime.

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.

Question. What have you to say concerning the operations of the Society for Psychical Research? Do not its facts and conclusions prove, if not immortality, at least the continuity of life beyond the grave? Are the millions of Spiritualists deluded?

Answer. Of course I have heard and read a great deal about the doings of the Society; so, I have some knowledge as to what is claimed by Spiritualists, by Theosophists, and by all other believers in what are called "spiritual manifestations." Thousands of wonderful tings have been established by what is called "evidence" —the testimony of good men and women. I have seen things done that I could not explain, both by mediums and magicians. I also know that it is easy to deceive the senses, and that the old saying "that seeing is believing" is subject to many exceptions. I am perfectly satisfied that there is, and can be, no force without matter; that everything that is—all phenomena—all actions and thoughts, all exhibitions of force, have a material basis—that nothing exists,—ever did, or ever will exist, apart from matter. So I am satisfied that no matter ever existed, or ever will, apart from force.

We think with the same force with which we walk. For every action and for every thought, we draw upon the store of force that we have gained from air and food. We create no force; we borrow it all. As force cannot exist apart from matter, it must be used with matter. It travels only on material roads. It is impossible to convey a thought to another without the assistance of matter. No one can conceive of the use of one of our senses without substance. No one can conceive of a thought in the absence of the senses. With these conclusions in my mind—in my brain—I have not the slightest confidence in "spiritual manifestations," and do not believe that any message has ever been received from the dead. The testimony that I have heard—that I have read—coming even from men of science—has not the slightest weight with me. I do not pretend to see beyond the grave. I do not say that man is, or is not, immortal. All I say is that there is no evidence that we live again, and no demonstration that we do not. It is better ignorantly to hope than dishonestly to affirm.

Question. And what do you think of the modern development of metaphysics—as expressed outside of the emotional and semi- ecclesiastical schools? I refer especially to the power of mind in the curing of disease—as demonstrated by scores of drugless healers.

Answer. I have no doubt that the condition of the mind has some effect upon the health. The blood, the heart, the lungs answer— respond to—emotion. There is no mind without body, and the body is affected by thought—by passion, by cheerfulness, by depression. Still, I have not the slightest confidence in what is called "mind cure." I do not believe that thought, or any set of ideas, can cure a cancer, or prevent the hair from falling out, or remove a tumor, or even freckles. At the same time, I admit that cheerfulness is good and depression bad. But I have no confidence in what you call "drugless healers." If the stomach is sour, soda is better than thinking. If one is in great pain, opium will beat meditation. I am a believer in what you call "drugs," and when I am sick I send for a physician. I have no confidence in the supernatural. Magic is not medicine.

Question. One great object of this movement, is to make religion scientific—an aid to intellectual as well as spiritual progress. Is it not thus to be encouraged, and destined to succeed—even though it prove the reality and supremacy of the spirit and the secondary importance of the flesh?

Answer. When religion becomes scientific, it ceases to be religion and becomes science. Religion is not intellectual—it is emotional. It does not appeal to the reason. The founder of a religion has always said: "Let him that hath ears to hear, hear!" No founder has said: "Let him that hath brains to think, think!" Besides, we need not trouble ourselves about "spirit" and "flesh." We know that we know of no spirit—without flesh. We have no evidence that spirit ever did or ever will exist apart from flesh. Such existence is absolutely inconceivable. If we are going to construct what you call a "religion," it must be founded on observed and known facts. Theories, to be of value, must be in accord with all the facts that are known; otherwise they are worthless. We need not try to get back of facts or behind the truth. The why will forever elude us. You cannot move your hand quickly enough to grasp your image back of the mirror.

—Mind, New York, March, 1899.



THIS CENTURY'S GLORIES.

The laurel of the nineteenth century is on Darwin's brow. This century has been the greatest of all. The inventions, the discoveries, the victories on the fields of thought, the advances in nearly every direction of human effort are without parallel in human history. In only two directions have the achievements of this century been excelled. The marbles of Greece have not been equalled. They still occupy the niches dedicated to perfection. They sculptors of our century stand before the miracles of the Greeks in impotent wonder. They cannot even copy. They cannot give the breath of life to stone and make the marble feel and think. The plays of Shakespeare have never been approached. He reached the summit, filled the horizon. In the direction of the dramatic, the poetic, the human mind, in my judgment, in Shakespeare's plays reached its limit. The field was harvested, all the secrets of the heart were told. The buds of all hopes blossomed, all seas were crossed and all the shores were touched.

With these two exceptions, the Grecian marbles and the Shakespeare plays, the nineteenth century has produced more for the benefit of man than all the centuries of the past. In this century, in one direction, I think the mind has reached the limit. I do not believe the music of Wagner will ever be excelled. He changed all passions, longing, memories and aspirations into tones, and with subtle harmonies wove tapestries of sound, whereon were pictured the past and future, the history and prophecy of the human heart. Of course Copernicus, Galileo, Newton and Kepler laid the foundations of astronomy. It may be that the three laws of Kepler mark the highest point in that direction that the mind has reached.

In the other centuries there is now and then a peak, but through ours there runs a mountain range with Alp on Alp—the steamship that has conquered all the seas; the railway, with its steeds of steel with breath of flame, covers the land; the cables and telegraphs, along which lightning is the carrier of thought, have made the nations neighbors and brought the world to every home; the making of paper from wood, the printing presses that made it possible to give the history of the human race each day; the reapers, mowers and threshers that superseded the cradles, scythes and flails; the lighting of streets and houses with gas and incandescent lamps, changing night into day; the invention of matches that made fire the companion of man; the process of making steel, invented by Bessemer, saving for the world hundreds of millions a year; the discovery of anesthetics, changing pain to happy dreams and making surgery a science; the spectrum analysis, that told us the secrets of the suns; the telephone, that transports speech, uniting lips and ears; the phonograph, that holds in dots and marks the echoes of our words; the marvelous machines that spin and weave, that manufacture the countless things of use, the marvelous machines, whose wheels and levers seem to think; the discoveries in chemistry, the wave theory of light, the indestructibility of matter and force; the discovery of microbes and bacilli, so that now the plague can be stayed without the assistance of priests.

The art of photography became known, the sun became an artist, gave us the faces of our friends, copies of the great paintings and statues, pictures of the world's wonders, and enriched the eyes of poverty with the spoil of travel, the wealth of art. The cell theory was advanced, embryology was studied and science entered the secret house of life. The biologists, guided by fossil forms, followed the paths of life from protoplasm up to man. Then came Darwin with the "Origin of Species," "Natural Selection," and the "Survival of the Fittest." From his brain there came a flood of light. The old theories grew foolish and absurd. The temple of every science was rebuilt. That which had been called philosophy became childish superstition. The prison doors were opened and millions of convicts, of unconscious slaves, roved with joy over the fenceless fields of freedom. Darwin and Haeckel and Huxley and their fellow-workers filled the night of ignorance with the glittering stars of truth. This is Darwin's victory. He gained the greatest victory, the grandest triumph. The laurel of the nineteenth century is on his brow.

Question. How does the literature of to-day compare with that of the first half of the century, in your opinion?

Answer. There is now no poet of laughter and tears, of comedy and pathos, the equal of Hood. There is none with the subtle delicacy, the aerial footstep, the flame-like motion of Shelley; none with the amplitude, sweep and passion, with the strength and beauty, the courage and royal recklessness of Byron. The novelists of our day are not the equals of Dickens. In my judgment, Dickens wrote the greatest of all novels. "The Tale of Two Cities" is the supreme work of fiction. Its philosophy is perfect. The characters stand out like living statues. In its pages you find the blood and flame, the ferocity and self-sacrifice of the French Revolution. In the bosom of the Vengeance is the heart of the horror. In 105, North Tower, sits one whom sorrow drove beyond the verge, rescued from death by insanity, and we see the spirit of Dr. Manette tremblingly cross the great gulf that lies between the night of dreams and the blessed day, where things are as they seem, as a tress of golden hair, while on his hands and cheeks fall Lucie's blessed tears. The story is filled with lights and shadows, with the tragic and grotesque. While the woman knits, while the heads fall, Jerry Cruncher gnaws his rusty nails and his poor wife "flops" against his business, and prim Miss Pross, who in the desperation and terror of love held Mme. Defarge in her arms and who in the flash and crash found that her burden was dead, is drawn by the hand of a master. And what shall I say of Sidney Carton? Of his last walk? Of his last ride, holding the poor girl by the hand? Is there a more wonderful character in all the realm of fiction? Sidney Carton, the perfect lover, going to his death for the love of one who loves another. To me the three greatest novels are "The Tale of Two Cities," by Dickens, "Les Miserables," by Hugo, and "Ariadne," by Ouida.

"Les Miserables" is full of faults and perfections. The tragic is sometimes pushed to the grotesque, but from the depths it brings the pearls of truth. A convict becomes holier than the saint, a prostitute purer than the nun. This book fills the gutter with the glory of heaven, while the waters of the sewer reflect the stars.

In "Ariadne" you find the aroma of all art. It is a classic dream. And there, too, you find the hot blood of full and ample life. Ouida is the greatest living writer of fiction. Some of her books I do not like. If you wish to know what Ouida really is, read "Wanda," "The Dog of Flanders," "The Leaf in a Storm." In these you will hear the beating of her heart.

Most of the novelists of our time write good stories. They are ingenious, the characters are well drawn, but they lack life, energy. They do not appear to act for themselves, impelled by inner force. They seem to be pushed and pulled. The same may be said of the poets. Tennyson belongs to the latter half of our century. He was undoubtedly a great writer. He had no flame or storm, no tidal wave, nothing volcanic. He never overflowed the banks. He wrote nothing as intense, as noble and pathetic as the "Prisoner of Chillon;" nothing as purely poetic as "The Skylark;" nothing as perfect as the "Grecian Urn," and yet he was one of the greatest of poets. Viewed from all sides he was far greater than Shelley, far nobler than Keats. In a few poems Shelley reached almost the perfect, but many are weak, feeble, fragmentary, almost meaningless. So Keats in three poems reached a great height—in "St. Agnes' Eve," "The Grecian Urn," and "The Nightingale"—but most of his poetry is insipid, without thought, beauty or sincerity.

We have had some poets ourselves. Emerson wrote many poetic and philosophic lines. He never violated any rule. He kept his passions under control and generally "kept off the grass." But he uttered some great and splendid truths and sowed countless seeds of suggestion. When we remember that he came of a line of New England preachers we are amazed at the breadth, the depth and the freedom of his thought.

Walt Whitman wrote a few great poems, elemental, natural—poems that seem to be a part of nature, ample as the sky, having the rhythm of the tides, the swing of a planet.

Whitcomb Riley has written poems of hearth and home, of love and labor worthy of Robert Burns. He is the sweetest, strongest singer in our country and I do not know his equal in any land.

But when we compare the literature of the first half of this century with that of the last, we are compelled to say that the last, taken as a whole, is best. Think of the volumes that science has given to the world. In the first half of this century, sermons, orthodox sermons, were published and read. Now reading sermons is one of the lost habits. Taken as a whole, the literature of the latter half of our century is better than the first. I like the essays of Prof. Clifford. They are so clear, so logical that they are poetic. Herbert Spencer is not simply instructive, he is charming. He is full of true imagination. He is not the slave of imagination. Imagination is his servant. Huxley wrote like a trained swordsman. His thrusts were never parried. He had superb courage. He never apologized for having an opinion. There was never on his soul the stain of evasion. He was as candid as the truth. Haeckel is a great writer because he reveres a fact, and would not for his life deny or misinterpret one. He tells what he knows with the candor of a child and defends his conclusions like a scientist, a philosopher. He stands next to Darwin.

Coming back to fiction and poetry, I have great admiration for Edgar Fawcett. There is in his poetry thought, beauty and philosophy. He has the courage of his thought. He knows our language, the energy of verbs, the color of adjectives. He is in the highest sense an artist.

Question. What do you think of Hall Caine's recent efforts to bring about a closer union between the stage and pulpit?

Answer. Of course, I am not certain as to the intentions of Mr. Caine. I saw "The Christian," and it did not seem to me that the author was trying to catch the clergy.

There is certainly nothing in the play calculated to please the pulpit. There is a clergyman who is pious and heartless. John Storm is the only Christian, and he is crazy. When Glory accepts him at last, you not only feel, but you know she has acted the fool. The lord in the piece is a dog, and the real gentleman is the chap that runs the music hall. How the play can please the pulpit I do not see. Storm's whole career is a failure. His followers turn on him like wild beasts. His religion is a divine and diabolical dream. With him murder is one of the means of salvation. Mr. Caine has struck Christianity a stinging blow between the eyes. He has put two preachers on the stage, one a heartless hypocrite and the other a madman. Certainly I am not prejudiced in favor of Christianity, and yet I enjoyed the play. If Mr. Caine says he is trying to bring the stage and the pulpit together, then he is a humorist, with the humor of Rabelais.

Question. What do recent exhibitions in this city, of scenes from the life of Christ, indicate with regard to the tendencies of modern art?

Answer. Nothing. Some artists love the sombre, the melancholy, the hopeless. They enjoy painting the bowed form, the tear-filled eyes. To them grief is a festival. There are people who find pleasure in funerals. They love to watch the mourners. The falling clods make music. They love the silence, the heavy odors, the sorrowful hymns and the preacher's remarks. The feelings of such people do not indicate the general trend of the human mind. Even a poor artist may hope for success if he represents something in which many millions are deeply interested, around which their emotions cling like vines. A man need not be an orator to make a patriotic speech, a speech that flatters his audience. So, an artist need not be great in order to satisfy, if his subject appeals to the prejudice of those who look at his pictures.

I have never seen a good painting of Christ. All the Christs that I have seen lack strength and character. They look weak and despairing. They are all unhealthy. They have the attitude of apology, the sickly smile of non-resistance. I have never seen an heroic, serene and triumphant Christ. To tell the truth, I never saw a great religious picture. They lack sincerity. All the angels look almost idiotic. In their eyes is no thought, only the innocence of ignorance.

I think that art is leaving the celestial, the angelic, and is getting in love with the natural, the human. Troyon put more genius in the representation of cattle than Angelo and Raphael did in angels. No picture has been painted of heaven that is as beautiful as a landscape by Corot. The aim of art is to represent the realities, the highest and noblest, the most beautiful. The Greeks did not try to make men like gods, but they made gods like men. So that great artists of our day go to nature.

Question. Is it not strange that, with one exception, the most notable operas written since Wagner are by Italian composers instead of German?

Answer. For many years German musicians insisted that Wagner was not a composer. They declared that he produced only a succession of discordant noises. I account for this by the fact that the music of Wagner was not German. His countrymen could not understand it. They had to be educated. There was no orchestra in Germany that could really play "Tristan and Isolde." Its eloquence, its pathos, its shoreless passion was beyond them. There is no reason to suppose that Germany is to produce another Wagner. Is England expected to give us another Shakespeare?

—The Sun, New York, March 19, 1899.

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT AND THE WHIPPING-POST.

Question. What do you think of Governor Roosevelt's decision in the case of Mrs. Place?

Answer. I think the refusal of Governor Roosevelt to commute the sentence of Mrs. Place is a disgrace to the State. What a spectacle of man killing a woman—taking a poor, pallid, frightened woman, strapping her to a chair and then arranging the apparatus so she can be shocked to death. Many call this a Christian country. A good many people who believe in hell would naturally feel it their duty to kill a wretched, insane woman.

Society has a right to protect itself, but this can be done by imprisonment, and it is more humane to put a criminal in a cell than in a grave. Capital punishment degrades and hardens a community and it is a work of savagery. It is savagery. Capital punishment does not prevent murder, but sets an example—an example by the State—that is followed by its citizens. The State murders its enemies and the citizen murders his. Any punishment that degrades the punished, must necessarily degrade the one inflicting the punishment. No punishment should be inflicted by a human being that could not be inflicted by a gentleman.

For instance, take the whipping-post. Some people are in favor of flogging because they say that some offences are of such a frightful nature that flogging is the only punishment. They forget that the punishment must be inflicted by somebody, and that somebody is a low and contemptible cur. I understand that John G. Shortall, president of the Humane Society of Illinois, has had a bill introduced into the Legislature of the State for the establishment of the whipping-post.

The shadow of that post would disgrace and darken the whole State. Nothing could be more infamous, and yet this man is president of the Humane Society. Now, the question arises, what is humane about this society? Certainly not its president. Undoubtedly he is sincere. Certainly no man would take that position unless he was sincere. Nobody deliberately pretends to be bad, but the idea of his being president of the Humane Society is simply preposterous. With his idea about the whipping-post he might join a society of hyenas for the cultivation of ferocity, for certainly nothing short of that would do justice to his bill. I have too much confidence in the legislators of that State, and maybe my confidence rests in the fact that I do not know them, to think that the passage of such a bill is possible. If it were passed I think I would be justified in using the language of the old Marylander, who said, "I have lived in Maryland fifty years, but I have never counted them, and my hope is, that God won't."

Question. What did you think of the late Joseph Medill?

Answer. I was not very well acquainted with Mr. Medill. I had a good many conversations with him, and I was quite familiar with his work. I regard him as the greatest editor of the Northwestern States and I am not sure that there was a greater one in the country. He was one of the builders of the Republican party. He was on the right side of the great question of Liberty. He was a man of strong likes and I may say dislikes. He never surrendered his personality. The atom called Joseph Medill was never lost in the aggregation known as the Republican party. He was true to that party when it was true to him. As a rule he traveled a road of his own and he never seemed to have any doubt about where the road led. I think that he was an exceedingly useful man. I think the only true religion is usefulness. He was a very strong writer, and when touched by friendship for a man, or a cause, he occasionally wrote very great paragraphs, and paragraphs full of force and most admirably expressed.

—The Tribune, Chicago, March 19, 1899.

EXPANSION AND TRUSTS.*

[* This was Colonel Ingersoll's last interview.]

I am an expansionist. The country has the land hunger and expansion is popular. I want all we can honestly get.

But I do not want the Philippines unless the Filipinos want us, and I feel exactly the same about the Cubans.

We paid twenty millions of dollars to Spain for the Philippine Islands, and we knew that Spain had no title to them.

The question with me is not one of trade or convenience; it is a question of right or wrong. I think the best patriot is the man who wants his country to do right.

The Philippines would be a very valuable possession to us, in view of their proximity to China. But, however desirable they may be, that cuts no figure. We must do right. We must act nobly toward the Filipinos, whether we get the islands or not.

I would like to see peace between us and the Filipinos; peace honorable to both; peace based on reason instead of force.

If control had been given to Dewey, if Miles had been sent to Manila, I do not believe that a shot would have been fired at the Filipinos, and that they would have welcomed the American flag.

Question. Although you are not in favor of taking the Philippines by force, how do you regard the administration in its conduct of the war?

Answer. They have made many mistakes at Washington, and they are still making many. If it has been decided to conquer the Filipinos, then conquer them at once. Let the struggle not be drawn out and the drops of blood multiplied. The Republican party is being weakened by inaction at the Capital. If the war is not ended shortly, the party in power will feel the evil effects at the presidential election.

Question. In what light do you regard the Philippines as an addition to the territory of the United States?

Answer. Probably in the future, and possibly in the near future, the value of the islands to this country could hardly be calculated. The division of China which is bound to come, will open a market of four hundred millions of people. Naturally a possession close to the open doors of the East would be of an almost incalculable value to this country.

It might perhaps take a long time to teach the Chinese that they need our products. But suppose that the Chinese came to look upon wheat in the same light that other people look upon wheat and its product, bread? What an immense amount of grain it would take to feed four hundred million hungry Chinamen!

The same would be the case with the rest of our products. So you will perhaps agree with me in my view of the immense value of the islands if they could but be obtained by honorable means.

Question. If the Democratic party makes anti-imperialism the prominent plank in its platform, what effect will it have on the party's chance for success?

Answer. Anti-imperialism, as the Democratic battle-cry, would greatly weaken a party already very weak. It is the most unpopular issue of the day. The people want expansion. The country is infected with patriotic enthusiasm. The party that tries to resist the tidal wave will be swept away. Anybody who looks can see.

Let a band at any of the summer resorts or at the suburban breathing spots play a patriotic air. The listeners are electrified, and they rise and off go their hats when "The Star-Spangled Banner" is struck up. Imperialism cannot be fought with success.

Question. Will the Democratic party have a strong issue in its anti-trust cry?

Answer. In my opinion, both parties will nail anti-trust planks in their platforms. But this talk is all bosh with both parties. Neither one is honest in its cry against trusts. The one making the more noise in this direction may get the votes of some unthinking persons, but every one who is capable of reading and digesting what he reads, knows full well that the leaders of neither party are sincere and honest in their demonstrations against the trusts.

Why should the Democratic party lay claim to any anti-trust glory? Is it not a Republican administration that is at present investigating the alleged evils of trusts?

—The North American, Philadelphia, June 22, 1899.

THE END