Washington, D. C., April 15, 1883.
MY FRIENDS: Again we are face to face with the great mystery that
shrouds this world. We question, but there is no reply. Out on the wide
waste seas, there drifts no spar. Over the desert of death the sphinx
gazes forever, but never speaks.
In the very May of life another heart has ceased to beat. Night has
fallen upon noon. But he lived, he loved, he was loved. Wife and
children pressed their kisses on his lips. This is enough. The longest
life contains no more. This fills the vase of joy.
He who lies here, clothed with the perfect peace of death, was a kind
and loving husband, a good father, a generous neighbor, an honest
man,--and these words build a monument of glory above the humblest
grave. He was always a child, sincere and frank, as full of hope as
Spring. He divided all time into to-day and to-morrow. To-morrow was
without a cloud, and of to-morrow he borrowed sunshine for to-day. He
was my friend. He will remain so. The living oft become estranged; the
dead are true. He was not a Christian. In the Eden of his hope there
did not crawl and coil the serpent of eternal pain. In many languages
he sought the thoughts of men, and for himself he solved the problems of
the world. He accepted the philosophy of Auguste Comte. Humanity was his
God; the human race was his Supreme Being. In that Supreme Being he put
his trust. He believed that we are indebted for what we enjoy to the
labor, the self-denial, the heroism of the human race, and that as we
have plucked the fruit of what others planted, we in thankfulness should
plant for others yet to be.
With him immortality was the eternal consequences of his own acts. He
believed that every pure thought, every disinterested deed, hastens the
harvest of universal good. This is a religion that enriches poverty;
that enables us to bear the sorrows of the saddest life; that peoples
even solitude with the happy millions yet to live,--a religion born
not of selfishness and fear, but of love, of gratitude, and hope,--a
religion that digs wells to slake the thirst of others, and gladly bears
the burdens of the unborn.
But in the presence of death, how beliefs and dogmas wither and decay!
How loving words and deeds burst into blossom! Pluck from the tree
of any life these flowers, and there remain but the barren thorns of
bigotry and creed.
All wish for happiness beyond this life. All hope to meet again
the loved and lost. In every heart there grows this sacred flower.
Immortality is a word that Hope through all the ages has been whispering
to Love. The miracle of thought we cannot understand. The mystery of
life and death we cannot comprehend. This chaos called the world has
never been explained. The golden bridge of life from gloom emerges, and
on shadow rests. Beyond this we do not know. Fate is speechless, destiny
is dumb, and the secret of the future has never yet been told. We love;
we wait; we hope. The more we love, the more we fear. Upon the tenderest
heart the deepest shadows fall. All paths, whether filled with thorns
or flowers, end here. Here success and failure are the same. The rag of
Wretchedness and the purple robe of power all difference and distinction
lose in this democracy of death. Character survives; goodness lives;
love is immortal.
And yet to all a time may come when the fevered lips of life will long
for the cool, delicious kiss of death--when tired of the dust and glare
of day we all shall hear with joy the rustling garments of the night.
What can we say of death? What can we say of the dead? Where they have
gone, reason cannot go, and from thence revelation has not come. But let
us believe that over the cradle Nature bends and smiles, and lovingly
above the dead in benediction holds her outstretched hands.