586 lines
28 KiB
Plaintext
586 lines
28 KiB
Plaintext
9 page printout
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Reproducible Electronic Publishing can defeat censorship.
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**** ****
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contents of this file page
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A TRIBUTE TO HENRY WARD BEECHER. 1
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A TRIBUTE TO LAWRENCE BARRETT. 4
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A TRIBUTE TO PHILO D. BECKWITH. 5
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A TRIBUTE TO ISAAC H. BAILEY. 7
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**** ****
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This file, its printout, or copies of either
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are to be copied and given away, but NOT sold.
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Bank of Wisdom, Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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The Works of ROBERT G. INGERSOLL
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**** ****
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A TRIBUTE TO HENRY WARD BEECHER.
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New York, June 26, 1887.
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HENRY WARD BEECHER was born in a Puritan penitentiary, of
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which his father was one of the wardens -- a prison with very
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narrow and closely-grated windows. Under its walls were the
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rayless, hopeless and measureless dungeons of the damned, and on
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its roof fell the shadow of God's eternal frown. In this prison the
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creed and catechism were primers for children, and from a pure
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sense of duty their loving hearts were stained and scarred with the
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religion of John Calvin.
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In those days the home of an orthodox minister was an
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inquisition in which babes were tortured for the good of their
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souls. Children then, as now, rebelled against the infamous
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absurdities and cruelties of the creed. No Calvinist was ever able,
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unless with blows, to answer the questions of his child. Children
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were raised in what was called "the nurture and admonition of the
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Lard" -- that is to say, their wills were broken or subdued, their
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natures were deformed and dwarfed, their desires defeated or
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destroyed, and their development arrested or perverted. Life was
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robbed of its Spring, its Summer and its Autumn. Children stepped
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from the cradle into the snow. No laughter, no sunshine, no joyous,
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free, unburdened days. God, an infinite detective, watched them
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from above, and Satan, with malicious leer, was waiting for their
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souls below. Between these monsters life was passed. Infinite
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consequences were predicated of the smallest action, and a burden
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greater than a God could bear was placed upon the heart and brain
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of every child. To think, to ask questions, to doubt, to
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investigate, were acts of rebellion. To express pity for the lost,
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writhing in the dungeons below, was simply to give evidence that
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the enemy of souls had been at work within their hearts.
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Among all the religions of this world -- from the creed of
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cannibals who devoured flesh, to that of Calvinists who polluted
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souls -- there is none, there has been none, there will be none,
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Bank of Wisdom
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Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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1
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A TRIBUTE TO HENRY WARD BEECHER.
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more utterly heartless and inhuman than was the orthodox
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Congregationalism of New England in the year of grace 1813. It
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despised every natural joy, hated pictures, abhorred statues as
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lewd and lustful things, execrated music, regarded nature as fallen
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and corrupt, man as totally depraved and woman as somewhat worse.
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The theater was the vestibule of perdition, actors the servants of
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Satan, and Shakespeare a trifling wretch whose words were seeds of
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death. And yet the virtues found a welcome, cordial and sincere;
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duty was done as understood; obligations were discharged; truth was
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told; self-denial was practiced for the sake of others, and many
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hearts were good and true in spite of book and creed.
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In this atmosphere of theological miasma, in this hideous
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dream of superstition, in this penitentiary, moral and austere,
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this babe first saw the imprisoned gloom. The natural desires
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ungratified, the laughter suppressed, the logic brow-beaten by
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authority, the humor frozen by fear -- of many generations -- were
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in this child, a child destined to rend and wreck the prison's
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walls.
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Through the grated windows of his cell, this child, this boy,
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this man, caught glimpses of the outer world, of fields and skies.
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New thoughts were in his brain, new hopes within his heart. Another
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heaven bent above his life. There came a revelation of the
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beautiful and real. Theology grew mean and small. Nature wooed and
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won and saved this mighty soul.
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Her countless hands were sowing seeds within his tropic brain.
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All sights and sounds -- all colors, forms and fragments -- were
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stored within the treasury of his mind. His thoughts were molded by
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the graceful curves of streams, by winding paths in woods, the
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charm of quiet country roads, and lanes grown indistinct with weeds
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and grass -- by vines that cling and hide with leaf and flower the
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crumbling wall's decay -- by cattle standing in the summer pools
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like statues of content.
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There was within his words the subtle spirit of the season's
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change -- of everything that is, of everything that lies between
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the slumbering seeds that, half awakened by the April rain, have
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dreams of heaven's blue, and feel the amorous kisses of the sun,
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and that strange tomb wherein the alchemist doth give to death's
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cold dust the throb and thrill of life again. He saw with loving
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eyes the willows of the meadow-streams grow red beneath the glance
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of Spring -- the grass along the marsh's edge -- the stir of life
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beneath the withered leaves -- the moss below the drip of snow --
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the flowers that give their bosoms to the first south wind that
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wooes -- the sad and timid violets that only bear the gaze of love
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from eyes half closed -- the ferns, where fancy gives a thousand
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forms with but a single plan -- the green and sunny slopes enriched
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with daisy's silver and the cowslip's gold.
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As in the leafless woods some tree, aflame with life, stands
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like a rapt poet in the heedless crowd, so stood this man among his
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fellow-men.
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All there is of leaf and bud, of flower and fruit, of painted
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insect life, and all the winged and happy children of the air that
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Bank of Wisdom
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Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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2
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A TRIBUTE TO HENRY WARD BEECHER.
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Summer holds beneath her dome of blue, were known and loved by him.
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He loved the yellow Autumn fields, the golden stacks, the happy
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homes of men, the orchard's bending boughs, the sumach's flags of
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flame, the maples with transfigured leaves, the tender yellow of
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the beech, the wondrous harmonies of brown and gold -- the vines
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where hang the clustered spheres of wit and mirth. He loved the
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winter days, the whirl and drift of snow -- all forms of frost --
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the rage and fury of the storm, when in the forest, desolate and
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stripped, the brave old pine towers green and grand -- a prophecy
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of Spring. He heard the rhythmic sounds of Nature's busy strife,
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the hum of beds, the songs of birds, the eagle's cry, the murmur of
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the streams, the sighs and lamentations of the winds, and all the
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voices of the sea. He loved the shores, the vales, the crags and
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cliffs, the city's busy streets, the introspective, silent plain,
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the solemn splendors of the night, the silver sea of dawn, and
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evening's clouds of molten gold. The love of nature freed this
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loving man.
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One by one the fetters fell; the gratings disappeared, the
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sunshine smote the roof, and on the floors of stone, light streamed
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from open doors. He realized the darkness and despair, the cruelty
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and hate, the starless blackness of the old, malignant creed. The
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flower of pity grew and blossomed in his heart. The selfish
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"consolation" filled his eyes with tears. He saw that what is
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called the Christian's hope is, that, among the countless billions
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wrecked and lost, a meager few perhaps may reach the eternal shore
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-- a hope that, like the desert rain, gives neither leaf nor bud --
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a hope that gives no joy, no peace, to any great and loving soul.
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It Is the dust on which the serpent feeds that coils in heartless
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breasts.
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Day by day the wrath and vengeance faded from the sky -- the
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Jewish God grew vague and dim -- the threats of torture and eternal
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pain grew vulgar and absurd, and all the miracles seemed strangely
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out of place. They clad the Infinite in motley garb, and gave to
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aureoled heads the cap and bells.
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Touched by the pathos of all human life, knowing the shadows
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that fall on every heart -- the thorns in every path, the sighs,
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the sorrows, and the tears that lie between a mother's arms and
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death's embrace -- this great and gifted man denounced, denied, and
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damned with all his heart the fanged and frightful dogma that souls
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were made to feed the eternal hunger -- ravenous as famine -- of a
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God's revenge.
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Take out this fearful, fiendish, heartless lie -- compared
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with which all other lies are true -- and the great arch of
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orthodox religion crumbling falls.
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To the average man the Christian hell and heaven are only
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words. He has no scope of thought. He lives but in a dim,
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impoverished now. To him the past is dead -- the future still
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unborn. He occupies with downcast eyes that narrow line of barren,
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shifting sand that lies between the flowing seas. But Genius knows
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all time. For him the dead all live and breathe, and act their
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countless parts again. All human life is in his now, and every
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moment feels the thrill of all to be.
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Bank of Wisdom
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Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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3
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A TRIBUTE TO HENRY WARD BEECHER.
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No one can overestimate the good accomplished by this
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marvelous, many-sided man. He helped to slay the heart-devouring
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monster of the Christian world. He tried to civilize the church, to
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humanize the creeds, to soften pious breasts of stone, to take the
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fear from mothers' hearts, the chains of creed from every brain, to
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put the star of hope in every sky and over every grave. Attacked on
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every side, maligned by those who preached the law of love, he
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wavered not, but fought whole-hearted to the end.
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Obstruction is but virtue's foil. From thwarted light leaps
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color's flame. The stream impeded has a song.
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He passed from harsh and cruel creeds to that serene
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philosophy that has no place for pride or hate, that threatens no
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revenge, that looks on sin as stumblings of the blind and pities
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those who fall, knowing that in the souls of all there is a sacred
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yearning for the light. He ceased to think of man as something
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thrust upon the world -- an exile from some other sphere. He felt
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at last that men are part of Nature's self -- kindred of all life
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-- the gradual growth of countless years; that all the sacred books
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were helps until outgrown, and all religions rough and devious
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paths that man has worn with weary feet in sad and painful search
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for truth and peace. To him these paths were wrong, and yet all
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gave the promise of success, He knew that all the streams, no
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matter how they wander, turn and curve amid the hills or rocks, or
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linger in the lakes and pools, must some time reach the sea. These
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views enlarged his soul and made him patient with the world, and
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while the wintry snows of age were falling on his head, Spring,
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with all her wealth of bloom, was in his heart.
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The memory of this ample man is now a part of Nature's wealth.
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He battled for the rights of men. His heart was with the slave. He
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stood against the selfish greed of millions banded to protect the
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pirate's trade. His voice was for the right when freedom's friends
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were few. He taught the church to think and doubt. He did not fear
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to stand alone. His brain took counsel of his heart. To every foe
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he offered reconciliation's hand. He loved this land of ours, and
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added to its glory through the world. He was the greatest orator
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that stood within the pulpit's narrow curve. He loved the liberty
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of speech. There was no trace of bigot in his blood. He was a brave
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and generous man.
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With reverent hands, I place this tribute on his tomb.
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**** ****
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A TRIBUTE TO LAWRENCE BARRETT.
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At the Broadway Theater, New York, March 22, 1891.
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MY heart tells me that on the threshold of my address it will
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be appropriate for me to say a few words about the great actor who
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has just fallen into that sleep that we call death. Lawrence
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Barrett was my friend, and I was his. He was an interpreter of
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Shakespeare, to whose creations he gave flesh and blood. He began
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at the foundation of his profession, and rose until he stood next
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to his friend -- next to one who is regarded as the greatest
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tragedian of our time -- next to Edwin Booth.
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Bank of Wisdom
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Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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4
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A TRIBUTE TO LAWRENCE BARRETT.
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The life of Lawrence Barrett was a success, because he honored
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himself and added glory to the stage.
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He did not seek for gain by pandering to the thoughtless,
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ignorant or base. He gave the drama in its highest and most serious
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form. He shunned the questionable, the vulgar and unpure, and gave
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the intellectual, the pathetic, the manly and the tragic. He did
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not stoop to conquer -- he soared. He was fitted for the stage. He
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had a thoughtful face, a vibrant voice and the pose of chivalry.
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and besides he had patience, industry, courage and the genius of
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success. He was a graceful and striking Bassanio, a thoughtful
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Hamlet, an intense Othello, a marvelous Harebell, and the best
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Cassius of his century.
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In the drama of human life, all are actors, and no one knows
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his part. In this great play the scenes are shifted by unknown
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forces, and the commencement, plot and end are still unknown -- are
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still unguessed. One by one the players leave the stage, and others
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take their places. There is no pause -- the play goes on. No
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prompter's voice is heard, and no one has the slightest clue to
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what the next scene is to be.
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Will this great drama have an end? Will the curtain fall at
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last? Will it rise again upon some other stage? Reason says
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perhaps, and Hope still whispers yes. Sadly I bid my friend
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farewell, I admired the actor. and I loved the man.
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**** ****
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A TRIBUTE TO PHILO D. BECKWITH.
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Dowagiac, Mich., January 25, 1893.
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LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Nothing is nobler than to plant the
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flower of gratitude on the grave of a generous man -- of one who
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labored for the good of all -- whose hands were open and whose
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heart was full.
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Praise for the noble dead is an inspiration for the noble
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living.
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Loving words sow seeds of love in every gentle heart.
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Appreciation is the soil and climate of good and generous deeds.
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We are met to-night not to pay, but to acknowledge a debt of
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gratitude to one who lived and labored here -- who was the friend
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of all and who for many years was the providence of the poor. To
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one who left to those who knew him best, the memory of countless
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loving deeds -- the richest legacy that man can leave to man.
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We are here to dedicate this monument to the stainless memory
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of Philo D. Beckwith -- one of the kings of men.
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This monument -- this perfect theater -- this beautiful house
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of cheerfulness and joy -- this home and child of all the arts --
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this temple where the architect, the sculptor and painter united to
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Bank of Wisdom
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Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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5
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A TRIBUTE TO PHILO D. BECKWITH.
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build and decorate a stage whereon the drama with a thousand
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tongues will tell the frailties and the virtues of the human race,
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and music with her thrilling voice will touch the source of happy
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tears.
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This is a fitting monument to the man whose memory we honor --
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to one, who broadening with the years, outgrew the cruel creeds,
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the heartless dogmas of his time -- to one who passed from
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superstition to science -- from religion to reason -- from theology
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to humanity -- from slavery to freedom -- from the shadow of fear
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to the blessed light of love and courage. To one who believed in
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intellectual hospitality -- in the perfect freedom of the soul, and
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hated tyranny, in every form, with all his heart.
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To one whose head and hands were in partnership constituting
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the firm of Intelligence and Industry, and whose heart divided the
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profits with his fellow-men. To one who fought the battle of life
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alone, without the aid of place or wealth, and yet grew nobler and
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gentler with success.
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To one who tried to make a heaven here and who believed in the
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blessed gospel of cheerfulness and love -- of happiness and hope.
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And it is fitting, too, that this monument should be adorned
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with the sublime faces, wrought in stone, of the immortal dead --
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of those who battled for the rights of man -- who broke the fetters
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of the slave -- of those who filled the minds of men with poetry,
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art, and light -- of Voltaire, who abolished torture in France and
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who did more for liberty than any other of the sons of men -- of
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Thomas Paine, whose pen did as much as any sword to make the New
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World free -- of Victor Hugo, who wept for those who weep -- of
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Emerson, a worshiper of the Ideal, who filled the mind with
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suggestions of the perfect -- of Goethe, the poet-philosopher -- of
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Whitman, the ample, wide as the sky -- author of the tenderest, the
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most pathetic, the sublimest poem that this continent has produced
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-- of Shakespeare, the King of all -- of Beethoven, the divine, --
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of Chopin and Verdi and of Wagner, grandest of them all, whose
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music satisfies the heart and brain and fills imagination's sky --
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of George Eliot, who wove within her brain the purple robe her
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genius wears -- of George Sand, subtle and sincere, passionate and
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free -- and with these -- faces of those who, on the stage, have
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made the mimic world as real as life and death.
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Beneath the loftiest monuments may be found ambition's
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worthless dust, while those who lived the loftiest lives are
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sleeping now in unknown graves.
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It may be that the bravest of the brave who ever fell upon the
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field of ruthless war, was left without a grave to mingle slowly
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with the land he saved.
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But here and now the Man and Monument agree, and blend like
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sounds that meet and melt in melody -- a monument for the dead --
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a blessing for the living -- a memory of tears -- a prophecy of
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joy.
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||
Bank of Wisdom
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||
Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
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6
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A TRIBUTE TO PHILO D. BECKWITH.
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Fortunate the people where this good man lived, for they are
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all his heirs -- and fortunate for me that I have had the privilege
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of laying this little laurel leaf upon his unstained brow.
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And now, speaking for those he loved -- for those who
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represent the honored dead -- I dedicate this home of mirth and
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song -- of poetry and art -- to the memory of Philo D. Beckwith --
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a true philosopher -- a real philanthropist.
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**** ****
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A TRIBUTE TO ISAAC H. BAILEY.
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New York, March 27, 1899.
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MY FRIENDS: When one whom we hold dear has reached the end of
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life and laid his burden down, it is but natural for us, his
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||
friends, to pay the tribute of respect and love; to tell his
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virtues, to express our sense of loss and speak above the
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||
sculptured clay some word of hope.
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Our friend, about whose bier we stand, was in the highest,
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noblest sense a man. He was not born to wealth -- he was his own
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providence, his own teacher. With him work was worship and labor
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was his only prayer. He depended on himself, and was as independent
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as it is possible for man to be. He hated debt, and obligation was
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a chain that scarred his flesh. He lived a long and useful life. In
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age he reaped with joy what he had sown in youth. He did not linger
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"until his flame lacked oil," but with his senses keen, his mind
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undimmed, and with his arms filled with gathered sheaves, in an
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instant, painlessly, unconsciously, he passed from happiness and
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health to the realm of perfect peace. We need not mourn for him,
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but for ourselves, for those he loved.
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He was an absolutely honest man -- a man who kept his word,
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who fulfilled his contracts, gave heaped and rounded measure and
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||
discharged all obligations with the fabled chivalry of ancient
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knights. He was absolutely honest, not only with others but with
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himself To his last moment his soul was stainless. He was true to
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his ideal -- true to his thought, and what his brain Conceived his
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lips expressed. He refused to pretend. He knew that to believe
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without evidence was impossible to the sound and sane, and that to
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say you believed when you did not, was possible only to the
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hypocrite or coward. He did not believe in the supernatural. He was
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a natural man and lived a natural life. He had no fear of fiends.
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He cared nothing for the guesses of inspired savages; nothing for
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the threats or promises of the sainted and insane.
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He enjoyed this life the good things of this world -- the
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clasp and smile of friendship, the exchange of generous deeds, the
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reasonable gratification of the senses -- of the wants of the body
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and mind. He was neither an insane ascetic nor a fool of pleasure,
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||
but walked the golden path along the strip of verdure that lies
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||
between the deserts of extremes.
|
||
|
||
With him to do right was not simply a duty, it was a pleasure.
|
||
He had philosophy enough to know that the quality of actions
|
||
depends upon their consequences, and that these consequences are
|
||
|
||
Bank of Wisdom
|
||
Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
|
||
7
|
||
|
||
A TRIBUTE TO ISAAC H. BAILEY.
|
||
|
||
the rewards and punishments that no God can give, inflict, withhold
|
||
or pardon.
|
||
|
||
He loved his country, he was proud of the heroic past,
|
||
dissatisfied with the present, and confident of the future. He
|
||
stood on the rock of principle. With him the wisest policy was to
|
||
do right. He would not compromise with wrong. He had no respect for
|
||
political failures who became reformers and decorated fraud with
|
||
the pretence of philanthropy, or sought to gain some private end in
|
||
the name of public good. He despised time-servers, trimmers,
|
||
fawners and all sorts and kinds of pretenders.
|
||
|
||
He believed in national honesty; in the preservation of public
|
||
faith. He believed that the Government should discharge every
|
||
obligation -- the implied as faithfully as the expressed. And I
|
||
would be unjust to his memory if I did not Say that he believed in
|
||
honest money, in the best money in the world, in pure gold, and
|
||
that he despised with all his heart financial frauds, and regarded
|
||
fifty cents that pretended to be a dollar, as he would a thief in
|
||
the uniform of a policeman, or a criminal in the robe of a judge.
|
||
|
||
He believed in liberty, and liberty for all. He pitied the
|
||
slave and hated the master; that is to say, he was an honest man.
|
||
In the dark days of the Rebellion he stood for the right. He loved
|
||
Lincoln with all his heart -- loved him for his genius, his courage
|
||
and his goodness. He loved Conkling -- loved him for his
|
||
independence, his manhood, for his unwavering courage, and because
|
||
he would not bow or bend -- loved him because he accepted defeat
|
||
with the pride of a victor. He loved Grant, and in the temple of
|
||
his heart, over the altar, in the highest niche, stood the great
|
||
soldier.
|
||
|
||
Nature was kind to our friend. She gave him the blessed gift
|
||
of humor. This filled his days with the climate of Autumn, so that
|
||
to him even disaster had its sunny side. On account of his humor he
|
||
appreciated and enjoyed the great literature of the world. He loved
|
||
Shakespeare, his clowns and heroes. He appreciated and enjoyed
|
||
Dickens. The characters of this great novelist were his
|
||
acquaintances. He knew them all; some were his friends and some he
|
||
dearly loved, He had wit of the keenest and quickest. The instant
|
||
the steel of his logic smote the flint of absurdity the spark
|
||
glittered. And yet, his wit was always kind. The flower went with
|
||
the thorn. The targets of his wit were not made enemies, but
|
||
admirers.
|
||
|
||
He was social, and after the feast of serious conversation he
|
||
loved the wine of wit -- the dessert of a good story that blossomed
|
||
into mirth. He enjoyed games -- was delighted by the relations of
|
||
chance -- the curious combinations of accident. He had the genius
|
||
of friendship. In his nature there was no suspicion. He could not
|
||
be poisoned against a friend. The arrows of slander never pierced
|
||
the shield of his confidence. He demanded demonstration. He
|
||
defended a friend as he defended himself. Against all comers he
|
||
stood firm, and he never deserted the field until the friend had
|
||
fled. I have known many, many friends -- have clasped the hands of
|
||
many that I loved, but in the journey of my life I have never
|
||
grasped the hand of a better, truer, more unselfish friend than he
|
||
|
||
|
||
Bank of Wisdom
|
||
Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
|
||
8
|
||
|
||
A TRIBUTE TO ISAAC H. BAILEY.
|
||
|
||
who lies before us clothed in the perfect peace of death. He loved
|
||
me living and I love him now.
|
||
|
||
In youth we front the sun; we live in light without a fear,
|
||
without a thought of dusk or night. We glory in excess. There is no
|
||
dread of loss when all is growth and gain. With reckless hands we
|
||
spend and waste and chide the flying hours for loitering by the
|
||
way.
|
||
|
||
The future holds the fruit of joy; the present keeps us from
|
||
the feast, and so, with hurrying feet we climb the heights and
|
||
upward look with eager eyes. But when the sun begins to sink and
|
||
shadows fall in front, and lengthen on the path, then falls upon
|
||
the heart a sense of loss, and then we hoard the shreds and crumbs
|
||
and vainly long for what was cast away. And then with miser care we
|
||
save and spread thin hands before December's half-fed flickering
|
||
flames, while through the glass of time we moaning watch the few
|
||
remaining grains of sand that hasten to their end. In the gathering
|
||
gloom the fires slowly die, while memory dreams of youth, and hope
|
||
sometimes mistakes the glow of ashes for the coming of another
|
||
morn.
|
||
|
||
But our friend was an exception. He lived in the present; he
|
||
enjoyed the sunshine of to-day. Although his feet had touched the
|
||
limit of four-score, he had not reached the time to stop, to turn
|
||
and think about the traveled road. He was still full of life and
|
||
hope, and had the interest of youth in all the affairs of men.
|
||
|
||
He had no fear of the future -- no dread. He was ready for the
|
||
end. I have often heard him repeat the words of Epicurus: "Why
|
||
should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not.
|
||
Why should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?"
|
||
|
||
If there is, beyond the veil, beyond the night called death,
|
||
another world to which men carry all the failures and the triumphs
|
||
of this life; if above and over all there be a God who loves the
|
||
right, an honest man has naught to fear. If there be another world
|
||
in which sincerity is a virtue, in which fidelity is loved and
|
||
courage honored, then all is well with the dear friend whom we have
|
||
lost.
|
||
|
||
But if the grave ends all; if all that was our friend is dead,
|
||
the world is better for the life he lived. Beyond the tomb we
|
||
cannot see. We listen, but from the lips of mystery there comes no
|
||
word. Darkness and silence brooding over all. And yet, because we
|
||
love we hope. Farewell! And yet again, Farewell!
|
||
|
||
And will there, sometime, be another world? We have our dream.
|
||
The idea of immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in
|
||
the human heart, beating with its countless waves against the sand
|
||
and rocks of time and fate, was not born of any book or of any
|
||
creed. It was born of affection. And it will continue to ebb and
|
||
flow beneath the mists and clouds of doubt and darkness, as long as
|
||
love kisses the lips of death. We have our dream!
|
||
|
||
|
||
**** ****
|
||
|
||
|
||
Bank of Wisdom
|
||
Box 926, Louisville, KY 40201
|
||
9
|
||
|