At Scottish Rite Hall, New York, February 6, 1889.
MY FRIENDS: In the presence of the two great mysteries, Life and Death,
we are met to say above this still, unconscious house of clay, a few
words of kindness, of regret, of love, and hope.
In this presence, let us speak of the goodness, the charity, the
generosity and the genius of the dead.
Only flowers should be laid upon the tomb. In life's last pillow there
should be no thorns.
Mary Fiske was like herself--she patterned after none. She was a genius,
and put her soul in all she did and wrote. She cared nothing for roads,
nothing for beaten paths, nothing for the footsteps of others--she went
across the fields and through the woods and by the winding streams, and
down the vales, or over crags, wherever fancy led. She wrote lines that
leaped with laughter and words that were wet with tears. She gave us
quaint thoughts, and sayings filled with the "pert and nimble spirit of
mirth." Her pages were flecked with sunshine and shadow, and in every
word were the pulse and breath of life.
Her heart went out to all the wretched in this weary world--and yet she
seemed as joyous as though grief and death were nought but words. She
wept where others wept, but in her own misfortunes found the food of
hope. She cared for the to-morrow of others, but not for her own. She
lived for to-day.
Some hearts are like a waveless pool, satisfied to hold the image of a
wondrous star--but hers was full of motion, life and light and storm.
She longed for freedom. Every limitation was a prison's wall. Rules were
shackles, and forms were made for serfs and slaves.
She gave her utmost thought. She praised all generous deeds; applauded
the struggling and even those who failed.
She pitied the poor, the forsaken, the friendless. No one could fall
below her pity, no one could wander beyond the circumference of her
sympathy. To her there were no outcasts--they were victims. She knew
that the inhabitants of palaces and penitentiaries might change
places without adding to the injustice of the world. She knew that
circumstances and conditions determine character--that the lowest and
the worst of our race were children once, as pure as light, whose cheeks
dimpled with smiles beneath the heaven of a mother's eyes. She thought
of the road they had traveled, of the thorns that had pierced their
feet, of the deserts they had crossed, and so, instead of words of scorn
she gave the eager hand of help.
No one appealed to her in vain. She listened to the story of the poor,
and all she had she gave. A god could do no more.
The destitute and suffering turned naturally to her. The maimed and hurt
sought for her open door, and the helpless put their hands in hers.
She shielded the weak--she attacked the strong.
Her heart was open as the gates of day. She shed kindness as the sun
sheds light. If all her deeds were flowers, the air would be faint with
perfume. If all her charities could change to melodies, a symphony would
fill the sky.
Mary Fiske had within her brain the divine fire called genius, and in
her heart the "touch of nature that makes the whole world kin."
She wrote as a stream runs, that winds and babbles through the shadowy
fields, that falls in foam of flight and haste and laughing joins the
sea.
A little while ago a babe was found--one that had been abandoned by
its mother--left as a legacy to chance or fate. The warm heart of Mary
Fiske, now cold in death, was touched. She took the waif and held it
lovingly to her breast and made the child her own.
We pray thee, Mother Nature, that thou wilt take this woman and hold her
as tenderly in thy arms, as she held and pressed against her generous,
throbbing heart, the abandoned babe.
We ask no more.
In this presence, let us remember our faults, our frailties, and the
generous, helpful, self-denying, loving deeds of Mary Fiske.