Christianity makes eternal life an infinite horror, and casts the glare of hell on almost every grave.
The Spiritualists appear to be happy in their belief. I have never known a happy orthodox Christian.
It is natural to shun death, natural to desire eternal life. With all my heart I hope for everlasting life and joy—a life without failures, without crimes and tears.
If immortality could be established, the river of life would overflow with happiness. The faces of prisoners, of slaves, of the deserted, of the diseased and starving would be radiant with smiles, and the dull eyes of despair would glow with light.
If it could be established.
Let us hope.
—The Journal, New York, July 26, 1896.
Question. What is your opinion of the position taken by the United States in the Venezuelan dispute? How should the dispute be settled?
Answer. I do not think that we have any interest in the dispute between Venezuela and England. It was and is none of our business. The Monroe doctrine was not and is not in any way involved. Mr. Cleveland made a mistake and so did Congress.
Question. What should be the attitude of the church toward the stage?
Answer. It should be, what it always has been, against it. If the orthodox churches are right, then the stage is wrong. The stage makes people forget hell; and this puts their souls in peril. There will be forever a conflict between Shakespeare and the Bible.
Question. What do you think of the new woman?
Answer. I like her.
Question. Where rests the responsibility for the Armenian atrocities?
Answer. Religion is the cause of the hatred and bloodshed.
Question. What do you think of international marriages, as between titled foreigners and American heiresses?
Answer. My opinion is the same as is entertained by the American girl after the marriages. It is a great mistake.
Question. What do you think of England's Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin?
Answer. I have only read a few of his lines and they were not poetic. The office of Poet Laureate should be abolished. Men cannot write poems to order as they could deliver cabbages or beer. By poems I do not mean jingles of words. I mean great thoughts clothed in splendor.
Question. What is your estimate of Susan B. Anthony?
Answer. Miss Anthony is one of the most remarkable women in the world. She has the enthusiasm of youth and spring, the courage and sincerity of a martyr. She is as reliable as the attraction of gravitation. She is absolutely true to her conviction, intellectually honest, logical, candid and infinitely persistent. No human being has done more for women than Miss Anthony. She has won the respect and admiration of the best people on the earth. And so I say: Good luck and long life to Susan B. Anthony.
Question. Which did more for his country, George Washington or Abraham Lincoln?
Answer. In my judgment, Lincoln was the greatest man ever President. I put him above Washington and Jefferson. He had the genius of goodness; and he was one of the wisest and shrewdest of men. Lincoln towers above them all.
Question. What gave rise to the report that you had been converted —did you go to church somewhere?
Answer. I visited the "People's Church" in Kalamazoo, Michigan. This church has no creed. The object is to make people happy in this world. Miss Bartlett is the pastor. She is a remarkable woman and is devoting her life to good work. I liked her church and said so. This is all.
Question. Are there not some human natures so morally weak or diseased that they cannot keep from sin without the aid of some sort of religion?
Answer. I do not believe that the orthodox religion helps anybody to be just, generous or honest. Superstition is not the soil in which goodness grows. Falsehood is poor medicine.
Question. Would you consent to live in any but a Christian community? If you would, please name one.
Answer. I would not live in a community where all were orthodox Christians. I would rather dwell in Central Africa. If I could have my choice I would rather live among people who were free, who sought for truth and lived according to reason. Sometime there will be such a community.
Question. Is the noun "United States" singular or plural, as you use English?
Answer. I use it in the singular.
Question. Have you read Nordau's "Degeneracy"? If so, what do you think of it?
Answer. I think it is substantially insane.
Question. What do you think of Bishop Doane's advocacy of free rum as a solution of the liquor problem?
Answer. I am a believer in liberty. All the temperance legislation, all the temperance societies, all the agitation, all these things have done no good.
Question. Do you agree with Mr. Carnegie that a college education is of little or no practical value to a man?
Answer. A man must have education. It makes no difference where or how he gets it. To study the dead languages is time wasted so far as success in business is concerned. Most of the colleges in this country are poor because controlled by theologians.
Question. What suggestion would you make for the improvement of the newspapers of this country?
Answer. Every article in a newspaper should be signed by the writer. And all writers should do their best to tell the exact facts.
Question. What do you think of Niagara Falls?
Answer. It is a dangerous place. Those great rushing waters— there is nothing attractive to me in them. There is so much noise; so much tumult. It is simply a mighty force of nature—one of those tremendous powers that is to be feared for its danger. What I like in nature is a cultivated field, where men can work in the free open air, where there is quiet and repose—no turmoil, no strife, no tumult, no fearful roar or struggle for mastery. I do not like the crowded, stuffy workshop, where life is slavery and drudgery. Give me the calm, cultivated land of waving grain, of flowers, of happiness.
Question. What is worse than death?
Answer. Oh, a great many things. To be dishonored. To be worthless. To feel that you are a failure. To be insane. To be constantly afraid of the future. To lose the ones you love.
—The Herald, Rochester, New York, February 25, 1896.
Question. With all your experiences, the trials, the responsibilities, the disappointments, the heartburnings, Colonel, is life worth living?
Answer. Well, I can only answer for myself. I like to be alive, to breathe the air, to look at the landscape, the clouds and stars, to repeat old poems, to look at pictures and statues, to hear music, the voices of the ones I love. I like to talk with my wife, my girls, my grandchildren. I like to sleep and to dream. Yes, you can say that life, to me, is worth living.
Question. Colonel, did you ever kill any game?
Answer. When I was a boy I killed two ducks, and it hurt me as much as anything I ever did. No, I would not kill any living creature. I am sometimes tempted to kill a mosquito on my hand, but I stop and think what a wonderful construction it has, and shoo it away.
Question. What do you think of political parties, Colonel?
Answer. In a country where the sovereignty is divided among the people, that is to say, among the men, in order to accomplish anything, many must unite, and I believe in joining the party that is going the nearest your way. I do not believe in being the slave or serf or servant of a party. Go with it if it is going your road, and when the road forks, take the one that leads to the place you wish to visit, no matter whether the party goes that way or not. I do not believe in belonging to a party or being the property of any organization. I do not believe in giving a mortgage on yourself or a deed of trust for any purpose whatever. It is better to be free and vote wrong than to be a slave and vote right. I believe in taking the chances. At the same time, as long as a party is going my way, I believe in placing that party above particular persons, and if that party nominates a man that I despise, I will vote for him if he is going my way. I would rather have a bad man belonging to my party in place, than a good man belonging to the other, provided my man believes in my principles, and to that extent I believe in party loyalty.
Neither do I join in the general hue and cry against bosses. There has always got to be a leader, even in a flock of wild geese. If anything is to be accomplished, no matter what, somebody takes the lead and the others allow him to go on. In that way political bosses are made, and when you hear a man howling against bosses at the top of his lungs, distending his cheeks to the bursting point, you may know that he has ambition to become a boss.
I do not belong to the Republican party, but I have been going with it, and when it goes wrong I shall quit, unless the other is worse. There is no office, no place, that I want, and as it does not cost anything to be right, I think it better to be that way.
Question. What is your idea of Christian Science?
Answer. I think it is superstition, pure and unadulterated. I think that soda will cure a sour stomach better than thinking. In my judgment, quinine is a better tonic than meditation. Of course cheerfulness is good and depression bad, but if you can absolutely control the body and all its functions by thought, what is the use of buying coal? Let the mercury go down and keep yourself hot by thinking. What is the use of wasting money for food? Fill your stomach with think. According to these Christian Science people all that really exists is an illusion, and the only realities are the things that do not exist. They are like the old fellow in India who said that all things were illusions. One day he was speaking to a crowd on his favorite hobby. Just as he said "all is illusion" a fellow on an elephant rode toward him. The elephant raised his trunk as though to strike, thereupon the speaker ran away. Then the crowd laughed. In a few moments the speaker returned. The people shouted: "If all is illusion, what made you run away?" The speaker replied: "My poor friends, I said all is illusion. I say so still. There was no elephant. I did not run away. You did not laugh, and I am not explaining now. All is illusion."
That man must have been a Christian Scientist.
—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago, November, 1897.
Question. Why are you so utterly opposed to vivisection?
Answer. Because, as it is generally practiced, it is an unspeakable cruelty. Because it hardens the hearts and demoralizes those who inflict useless and terrible pains on the bound and helpless. If these vivisectionists would give chloroform or ether to the animals they dissect; if they would render them insensible to pain, and if, by cutting up these animals, they could learn anything worth knowing, no one would seriously object.
The trouble is that these doctors, these students, these professors, these amateurs, do not give anesthetics. They insist that to render the animal insensible does away with the value of the experiment. They care nothing for the pain they inflict. They are so eager to find some fact that will be of benefit to the human race, that they are utterly careless of the agony endured.
Now, what I say is that no decent man, no gentleman, no civilized person, would vivisect an animal without first having rendered that animal insensible to pain. The doctor, the scientist, who puts his knives, forceps, chisels and saws into the flesh, bones and nerves of an animal without having used an anesthetic, is a savage, a pitiless, heartless monster. When he says he does this for the good of man, because he wishes to do good, he says what is not true. No such man wants to do good; he commits the crime for his own benefit and because he wishes to gratify an insane cruelty or to gain a reputation among like savages.
These scientists now insist that they have done some good. They do not tell exactly what they have done. The claim is general in its character—not specific. If they have done good, could they not have done just as much if they had used anesthetics? Good is not the child of cruelty.
Question. Do you think that the vivisectionists do their work without anesthetics? Do they not, as a rule, give something to deaden pain?
Answer. Here is what the trouble is. Now and then one uses chloroform, but the great majority do not. They claim that it interferes with the value of the experiment, and, as I said before, they object to the expense. Why should they care for what the animals suffer? They inflict the most horrible and useless pain, and they try the silliest experiments—experiments of no possible use or advantage.
For instance: They flay a dog to see how long he can live without his skin. Is this trifling experiment of any importance? Suppose the dog can live a week or a month or a year, what then? What must the real character of the scientific wretch be who would try an experiment like this? Is such a man seeking the good of his fellow- men?
So, these scientists starve animals until they slowly die; watch them from day to day as life recedes from the extremities, and watch them until the final surrender, to see how long the heart will flutter without food; without water. They keep a diary of their sufferings, of their whinings and moanings, of their insanity. And this diary is published and read with joy and eagerness by other scientists in like experiments. Of what possible use is it to know how long a dog or horse can live without food?
So, they take animals, dogs and horses, cut through the flesh with the knife, remove some of the back bone with the chisel, then divide the spinal marrow, then touch it with red hot wires for the purpose of finding, as they say, the connection of nerves; and the animal, thus vivisected, is left to die.
A good man will not voluntarily inflict pain. He will see that his horse has food, if he can procure it, and if he cannot procure the food, he will end the sufferings of the animal in the best and easiest way. So, the good man would rather remain in ignorance as to how pain is transmitted than to cut open the body of a living animal, divide the marrow and torture the nerves with red hot iron. Of what use can it be to take a dog, tie him down and cut out one of his kidneys to see if he can live with the other?
These horrors are perpetrated only by the cruel and the heartless —so cruel and so heartless that they are utterly unfit to be trusted with a human life. They innoculate animals with a virus of disease; they put poison in their eyes until rottenness destroys the sight; until the poor brutes become insane. They given them a disease that resembles hydrophobia, that is accompanied by the most frightful convulsions and spasms. They put them in ovens to see what degree of heat it is that kills. They also try the effect of cold; they slowly drown them; they poison them with the venom of snakes; they force foreign substances into their blood, and, by inoculation, into their eyes; and then watch and record their agonies; their sufferings.
Question. Don't you think that some good has been accomplished, some valuable information obtained, by vivisection?
Answer. I don't think any valuable information has been obtained by the vivisection of animals without chloroform that could not have been obtained with chloroform. And to answer the question broadly as to whether any good has been accomplished by vivisection, I say no.
According to the best information that I can obtain, the vivisectors have hindered instead of helped. Lawson Tait, who stands at the head of his profession in England, the best surgeon in Great Britain, says that all this cutting and roasting and freezing and torturing of animals has done harm instead of good. He says publicly that the vivisectors have hindered the progress of surgery. He declares that they have not only done no good, but asserts that they have done only harm. The same views according to Doctor Tait, are entertained by Bell, Syme and Fergusson.
Many have spoken of Darwin as though he were a vivisector. This is not true. All that has been accomplished by these torturers of dumb and helpless animals amounts to nothing. We have obtained from these gentlemen Koch's cure for consumption, Pasteur's factory of hydrophobia and Brown-Sequard's elixir of life. These three failures, gigantic, absurd, ludicrous, are the great accomplishment of vivisection.
Surgery has advanced, not by the heartless tormentors of animals, but by the use of anesthetics—that is to say, chloroform, ether and cocaine. The cruel wretches, the scientific assassins, have accomplished nothing. Hundreds of thousands of animals have suffered every pain that nerves can feel, and all for nothing—nothing except to harden the heart and to make criminals of men.
They have not given anesthetics to these animals, but they have been guilty of the last step in cruelty. They have given curare, a drug that attacks the centers of motion, that makes it impossible for the animal to move, so that when under its influence, no matter what the pain may be, the animal lies still. This curare not only destroys the power of motion, but increases the sensitiveness of the nerves. To give this drug and then to dissect the living animal is the extreme of cruelty. Beyond this, heartlessness cannot go.
Question. Do you know that you have been greatly criticized for what you have said on this subject?
Answer. Yes; I have read many criticisms; but what of that. It is impossible for the ingenuity of man to say anything in defence of cruelty—of heartlessness. So, it is impossible for the defenders of vivisection to show any good that has been accomplished without the use of anesthetics. The chemist ought to be able to determine what is and what is not poison. There is no need of torturing the animals. So, this giving to animals diseases is of no importance to man—not the slightest; and nothing has been discovered in bacteriology so far that has been of use or that is of benefit.
Personally, I admit that all have the right to criticise; and my answer to the critics is, that they do not know the facts; or, knowing them, they are interested in preventing a knowledge of these facts coming to the public. Vivisection should be controlled by law. No animal should be allowed to be tortured. And to cut up a living animal not under the influence of chloroform or ether, should be a penitentiary offence.
A perfect reply to all the critics who insist that great good has been done is to repeat the three names—Koch, Pasteur and Brown- Sequard.
The foundation of civilization is not cruelty; it is justice, generosity, mercy.
—Evening Telegram, New York, September 30, 1893.
Question. TheHeraldwould like to have you give your ideas on divorce. On last Sunday in your lecture you said a few words on the subject, but only a few. Do you think the laws governing divorce ought to be changed?
Answer. We obtained our ideas about divorce from the Hebrews— from the New Testament and the church. In the Old Testament woman is not considered of much importance. The wife was the property of the husband.
"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ox or his wife." In this commandment the wife is put on an equality with other property, so under certain conditions the husband could put away his wife, but the wife could not put away her husband.
In the New Testament there is little in favor of marriage, and really nothing as to the rights of wives. Christ said nothing in favor of marriage, and never married. So far as I know, none of the apostles had families. St. Paul was opposed to marriage, and allowed it only as a choice of evils. In those days it was imagined by the Christians that the world was about to be purified by fire, and that they would be changed into angels.
The early Christians were opposed to marriage, and the "fathers" looked upon woman as the source of all evil. They did not believe in divorces. They thought that if people loved each other better than they did God, and got married, they ought to be held to the bargain, no matter what happened.
These "fathers" were, for the most part, ignorant and hateful savages, and had no more idea of right and wrong than wild beasts.
The church insisted that marriage was a sacrament, and that God, in some mysterious way, joined husband and wife in marriage—that he was one of the parties to the contract, and that only death could end it.
Of course, this supernatural view of marriage is perfectly absurd. If there be a God, there certainly have been marriages he did not approve, and certain it is that God can have no interest in keeping husbands and wives together who never should have married.
Some of the preachers insist that God instituted marriage in the Garden of Eden. We now know that there was no Garden of Eden, and that woman was not made from the first man's rib. Nobody with any real sense believes this now. The institution of marriage was not established by Jehovah. Neither was it established by Christ, not any of his apostles.
In considering the question of divorce, the supernatural should be discarded. We should take into consideration only the effect upon human beings. The gods should be allowed to take care of themselves.
Is it to the interest of a husband and wife to live together after love has perished and when they hate each other? Will this add to their happiness? Should a woman be compelled to remain the wife of a man who hates and abuses her, and whom she loathes? Has society any interest in forcing women to live with men they hate?
There is no real marriage without love, and in the marriage state there is no morality without love. A woman who remains the wife of a man whom she despises, or does not love, corrupts her soul. She becomes degraded, polluted, and feels that her flesh has been soiled. Under such circumstances a good woman suffers the agonies of moral death. It may be said that the woman can leave her husband; that she is not compelled to live in the same house or to occupy the same room. If she has the right to leave, has she the right to get a new house? Should a woman be punished for having married? Women do not marry the wrong men on purpose. Thousands of mistakes are made—are these mistakes sacred? Must they be preserved to please God?
What good can it do God to keep people married who hate each other?What good can it do the community to keep such people together?
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.
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 theTimes-Heraldasked 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 theTimes-Heraldare 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 theTimes-Herald. So the editor of theTimes- Heraldtook 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.
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.
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.
[* 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.
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 whoare 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 ofPierce, 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 hisGod 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.
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.
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.
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.