A Tribute to Ebon C. Ingersoll, by his Brother
Robert--The Record of a Generous Life Runs
Like a Vine Around the Memory of our
Dead, and Every Sweet, Unselfish
Act is Now a Perfumed Flower.
Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would
do for me.
The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where
manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were
falling toward the west.
He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest
point; but, being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and,
using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that
kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured
with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust.
Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour
of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash
against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a
sunken ship For whether in mid sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther
shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every
life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment
jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep
and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death.
This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but
in the sunshine he was vine and flower. He was the friend of all heroic
souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below,
while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of the grander day.
He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to
tears. He sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly
gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully
discharged all public trusts.
He was a worshiper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand
times I have heard him quote these words: "For Justice all place a
temple, and all season, summer." He believed that happiness was the only
good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only
religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy;
and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom
to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of sweet
flowers.
Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two
eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud,
and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless
lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of
death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.
He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the
return of health, whispered with his latest breath, "I am better now."
Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that
these dear words are true of all the countless dead.
And now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved,
to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust.
Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler,
stronger, manlier man.