REUNION ADDRESS.
Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Ingersoll, Robert Green and Widger, David
Now he is turned out and before long he is driven back. Nobody will employ him, nobody will take him, and, the night following the day of his release he is without a roof over his head and goes back to his old ways. I would allow him to change his name, to go to another State with a few hundred dollars in his pocket and begin the world again.
We must recollect that it is the misfortune of a man to become a criminal.
I have hobbies and plenty of them.
I want to see five hundred millions of people living here in peace. If we want them to live in peace, we must develop the brain, civilize the heart, and above all things, must not forget education. Nothing should be taught in the school that somebody does not know.
When I look about me to-day, when I think of the advance of my country, then I think of the work that has been done.
Think of the millions who crossed the mysterious sea, of the thousands and thousands of ships with their brave prows towards the West.
Think of the little settlements on the shores of the ocean, on the banks of rivers, on the edges of forests.
Think of the countless conflicts with savages—of the midnight attacks—of the cabin floors wet with the blood of dead fathers, mothers and babes.
Think of the winters of want, of the days of toil, of the nights of fear, of the hunger and hope.
Think of the courage, the sufferings and hardships.
Think of the homesickness, the disease and death.
Think of the labor; of the millions and millions of trees that were felled, while the aisles of the great forests were filled with the echoes of the ax; of the many millions of miles of furrows turned by the plow; of the millions of miles of fences built; of the countless logs changed to lumber by the saw—of the millions of huts, cabins and houses.
Think of the work. Listen, and you will hear the hum of wheels, the wheels with which our mothers spun the flax and wool. Listen, and you will hear the looms and flying shuttles with which they wove the cloth.
Think of the thousands still pressing toward the West, of the roads they made, of the bridges they built; of the homes, where the sunlight fell, where the bees hummed, the birds sang and the children laughed; of the little towns with mill and shop, with inn and schoolhouse; of the old stages, of the crack of the whips and the drivers' horns; of the canals they dug.
Think of the many thousands still pressing toward the West, passing over the Alleghanies to the shores of the Ohio and the great lakes—still onward to the Mississippi—the Missouri.
See the endless processions of covered wagons drawn by horses, by oxen,—men and boys and girls on foot, mothers and babes inside. See the glimmering camp fires at night; see the thousands up with the sun and away, leaving the perfume of coffee on the morning air, and sometimes leaving the new-made grave of wife or child. Listen, and you will hear the cry of "Gold!" and you will see many thousands crossing the great plains, climbing the mountains and pressing on to the Pacific.
Think of the toil, the courage it has taken to possess this land!
Think of the ore that was dug, the furnaces that lit the nights with flame; of the factories and mills by the rushing streams.
Think of the inventions that went hand in hand with the work; of the flails that were changed to threshers; of the sickles that became cradles, and the cradles that were changed to reapers and headers—of the wooden plows that became iron and steel; of the spinning wheel that became the jennie, and the old looms transformed to machines that almost think—of the steamboats that traversed the rivers, making the towns that were far apart neighbors and friends; of the stages that became cars, of the horses changed to locomotives with breath of flame, and the roads of dust and mud to highways of steel, of the rivers spanned and the mountains tunneled.
Think of the inventions, the improvements that changed the hut to the cabin, the cabin to the house, the house to the palace, the earthen floors and bare walls to carpets and pictures—that changed famine to feast—toil to happy labor and poverty to wealth.
Think of the cost.
Think of the separation of families—of boys and girls leaving the old home—taking with them the blessings and kisses of fathers and mothers. Think of the homesickness, of the tears shed by the mothers left by the daughters gone. Think of the millions of brave men deformed by labor now sleeping in their honored graves.
Think of all that has been wrought, endured and accomplished for our good, and let us remember with gratitude, with love and tears the brave men, the patient loving women who subdued this land for us.
Then think of the heroes who served this country; who gave us this glorious present and hope of a still more glorious future; think of the men who really made us free, who secured the blessings of liberty, not only to us, but to billions yet unborn.
This country will be covered with happy homes and free men and free women.
To-day we remember the heroic dead, those whose blood reddens the paths and highways of honor; those who died upon the field, in the charge, in prison-pens, or in famine's clutch; those who gave their lives that liberty should not perish from the earth. And to-day we remember the great leaders who have passed to the realm of silence, to the land of shadow. Thomas, the rock of Chickamauga, self-poised, firm, brave, faithful; Sherman, the reckless, the daring, the prudent and the victorious; Sheridan, a soldier fit to have stood by Julius Cæsar and to have uttered the words of command; and Grant, the silent, the invincible, the unconquered; and rising above them all, Lincoln, the wise, the patient, the merciful, the grandest figure in the Western world. We remember them all today and hundreds of thousands who are not mentioned, but who are equally worthy, hundreds of thousands of privates, deserving of equal honor with the plumed leaders of the host.
And what shall I say to you, survivors of the death-filled days? To you, my comrades, to you whom I have known in the great days, in the time when the heart beat fast and the blood flowed strong; in the days of high hope—what shall I say? All I can say is that my heart goes out to you, one and all. To you who bared your bosoms to the storms of war; to you who left loved ones to die, if need be, for the sacred cause. May you live long in the land you helped to save; may the winter of your age be as green as spring, as full of blossoms as summer, as generous as autumn, and may you, surrounded by plenty, with your wives at your sides and your grandchildren on your knees, live long. And when at last the fires of life burn low; when you enter the deepening dusk of the last of many, many happy days; when your brave hearts beat weak and slow, may the memory of your splendid deeds; deeds that freed your fellow-men; deeds that kept your country on the map of the world; deeds that kept the flag of the Republic in the air—may the memory of these deeds fill your souls with peace and perfect joy. Let it console you to know that you are not to be forgotten. Centuries hence your story will be told in art and song, and upon your honored graves flowers will be lovingly laid by millions' of men and women now unborn.
Again expressing the joy that I feel in having met you, and again saying farewell to one and all, and wishing you all the blessings of life, I bid you goodbye.*
* At the last reunion of the Eleventh Illinois Cavalry, the Colonel's old regiment, and the soldiers of Peoria county, which Mr. Ingersoll attended, a little incident happened which let us into the inner circle of his life. The meeting was held at Elmwood. While the soldier were passing in review the citizens and young people filled all the seats in the park and crowded around the speaker's stand, so as to occupy all available space. When the soldiers had finished their parade and returned to the park, they found it impossible to get near the speaker. Of course we were all disappointed, but were forced to stand on the outskirts of the vast throng. As soon as he ceased speaking, Mr. Ingersoll said to a soldier that he would like to meet his comrades in the hall at a certain hour in the afternoon. The word spread quickly, and at the appointed hour the hall was crowded with soldiers. The guard stationed at tue door was ordered to let none but soldiers pass into the hall. Some of the comrades, however, brought their wives. The guards, true to their orders, refused to let the ladies pass. Just as Mr. Ingersoll was ready to speak, word came to him that some of the comrades' wives were outside and wanted permission to pass the guard. The hall was full, but Mr. Ingersoll requested all comrades whose wives were within reach to go and get them. When his order had been complied with even standing room was at a premium. When Mr.
Ingersoll arose to speak to that great assemblage of white-haired veterans and their aged companions his voice was unusually tender, and the wave of emotion that passed through the hall cannot be told in words. Tears and cheers blended as Mr. Ingersoll arose and began his speech with the statement that all present were nearing the setting sun of life, and in all probability that was the last opportunity many of them would have of taking each other by the hand. In this half-hour impromptu speech the great-hearted man, Robert G. Ingersoll, was seen at his best. It was not a clash of opinions over party or creed, but it was a meeting of hearts and communion together In the holy of holies of human life. The address was a series of word-pictures that still hang on the walls of memory. The speaker, in his most sympathetic mood, drew a picture of the service of the G. A. R., of the women of the republic, and then paid a beautiful tribute to home and invoked the kindest and greatest influence to guard his comrades and their companions during the remainder of life's journey. We got very close to the man that day, where we could see the heart of Mr. Ingersoll. I have often wished that a reporter could have been present to preserve the address. Imagine four beautiful word-paintings entitled, "The Service of the G. A. R.," "The Influence of Noble Womanhood," "The Sacredness of Home," and "The Pilgrimage of Life." Imagine these word-paintings as drawn by Mr. Ingersoll under the most favorable circumstances, and you have an idea of that address. Mr.
Ingersoll the Agnostic is a very different man from Mr. Ingersoll the man and patriot. I cannot share the doubts of this Agnostic. I cannot help admiring the man and patriot.—The Rev. Frank McAlpine, Peoria Star, August 1, 1895.