Ingersoll has neither philosophy nor logic. He has only sentiment, wit and rhetoric.
You, Fitch, are known to be a Deacon—
A shining light, a holy beacon
Upon the walls of Zion, blazing
With an effulgency amazing.
And yet, I think, between the two
(Bob Ingersoll, I mean, and you)
A man in want of light to read
Between the lines of nature’s Creed
Would rather scrutinize Creation
By Robert’s clear illumination,
Than blind his eyes with smoke and vapor
From your infernal sputtering taper.
Though Ingersoll, perchance, had not
Of wisdom or of truth one jot,
I’d rather miss with him the clew
To life than follow it with you.