As he looks on at the Protestants squabbling over the signification of biblical passages, the Colonel laughingly says: "It is to be regretted that your deity did not express himself more clearly."
Needless to say that he looks upon the Bible, not as an inspired book, but as a collection of literature something akin to the Arabian Nights, and this is what makes discussion with him difficult, if not out of the question. How is it possible to imagine a discussion between Faith and Reason?
To Protestants, the practice of religion is an occupation for Sundays. To Mr. Ingersoll, it is an occupation for every waking hour, and consists in accomplishing your duty to your fellow-creatures.
George Sand says the fanatic loves God to the exclusion of man. The theories of Colonel Ingersoll, lofty and noble as most of them are, verge upon fanaticism in the sense that they teach the love of mankind to the exclusion of Him who so loved man. The Colonel robs the poor and sorrowing of that which helps them to endure their ills, a belief in a better world to come.
Son of a Protestant minister, Robert Ingersoll early showed special aptitude for the discussion of theological questions. By the age of sixteen, he had thoroughly studied the Old Testament, and would reason upon it like a doctor of divinity. The father in vain drew Robert's attention to the beauties of the Bible, the son could see little in it but absurdities and inconsistencies. The old minister was heard to say: "It grieves me to hear my Robbie talk so, but I declare he is too much for me—I cannot answer him."
Who can answer Ingersoll? is a question often asked. Apparently, not the ministers of the hundreds of different Protestant sects that flourish in America; not Mr. Gladstone, student of the Bible and profound reasoner though he be.
For more than a year the President of the XIXth Century Club of New York was trying to get a Protestant clergyman to break a lance with this redoubtable agnostic in public, but without avail. Not one felt equal to the task.
That which makes this man so formidable is not so much his eloquence, his quick repartee, his sarcasm, his pathos, his humour; it is, above all, the life he leads, the example he sets of all the domestic virtues. One must have had the privilege of knowing him intimately, of penetrating into that sanctuary of conjugal happiness, his home, before one can form an idea of the respect that he must inspire even in those who abhor his doctrines. His house is the home of the purest joys; it holds four hearts that beat as one.
Mr. Ingersoll lives in one of the handsome houses on Fifth Avenue. His family consists of his wife and two lovely daughters, Athens and Venice, as an American whom I met at Colonel Ingersoll's used to call them. Indeed, one reminds you of the beautiful creations of Titian. The other seems like a mythological vision, a nymph from the banks of Erymanthus. As you look at her, while she speaks to you with her eyes modestly lowered, almost seeming to apologise for being so lovely, you involuntarily think of Le Jeune malade of André Chénier, that last of the Greek poets, as Edmond About called him.