He has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century, possibly of almost any other. He was, above all things, a man, and above genius, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence, above all art, rises the true man. Greater than all is the true man, and he walked among his fellow-men as such.
He was the poet of Death. He accepted all life and all death, and he justified all. He had the courage to meet all, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is of life as a divine melody.
You know better than I what his life has been, but let me say one thing. Knowing, as he did, what others can know and what they cannot, he accepted and absorbed all theories, all creeds, all religions, and believed in none. His philosophy was a sky that embraced all clouds and accounted for all clouds. He had a philosophy and a religion of his own, broader, as he believed--and as I believe--than others. He accepted all, he understood all, and he was above all.
He was absolutely true to himself. He had frankness and courage, and he was as candid as light. He was willing that all the sons of men should be absolutely acquainted with his heart and brain. He had nothing to conceal. Frank, candid, pure, serene, noble, and yet for years he was maligned and slandered, simply because he had the candor of nature.
He will be understood yet, and that for which he was condemned--his frankness, his candor--will add to the glory and greatness of his fame.
He wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of life, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity--the greatest gospel that can be preached.
He was not afraid to live, not afraid to die. For many years he and death were near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet and greet this king called death, and for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night, waiting for the light.
He never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys, he looked upon the mountain tops, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared, he fixed his gaze upon the stars.
In his brain were the blessed memories of the day, and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life.
He was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. The laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And when they did come, Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side were the nymphs of the day, and on the other the silent sisters of the night, and so, hand in hand, between smiles and tears, he reached his journey's end.
From the frontier of life, from the western wave-kissed shore, he sent us messages of content and hope, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the "Mystic Trumpeter" from Death's pale realm.
To-day we give back to Mother Nature, to her clasp and kiss, one of the bravest, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay.
Charitable as the air and generous as Nature, he was negligent of all except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say.
And I to-day thank him, not only for you but for myself, for all the brave words he has uttered. I thank him for all the great and splendid words lie has said in favor of liberty, in favor of man and woman, in favor of motherhood, in favor of fathers, in favor of children, and I thank him for the brave words that he has said of death.
He has lived, he has died, and death is less terrible than it was before. Thousands and millions will walk down into the "dark valley of the shadow" holding Walt Whitman by the hand. Long after we are dead the brave words he has spoken will sound like trumpets to the dying.
And so I lay this little wreath upon this great mans tomb. I loved him living, and I love him still.
A TRIBUTE TO PHILO D. BECKWITH.
Dowagiac, Mich., January 25, 1893.
LADIES and Gentlemen: Nothing is nobler than to plant the flower of gratitude on the grave of a generous man--of one who labored for the good of all--whose hands were open and whose heart was full.
Praise for the noble dead is an inspiration for the noble living.
Loving words sow seeds of love in every gentle heart. Appreciation is the soil and climate of good and generous deeds.
We are met to-night not to pay, but to acknowledge a debt of gratitude to one who lived and labored here--who was the friend of all and who for many years was the providence of the poor. To one who left to those who knew him best, the memory of countless loving deeds--the richest legacy that man can leave to man.
We are here to dedicate this monument to the stainless memory of Philo D. Beckwith--one of the kings of men.
This monument--this perfect theatre--this beautiful house of cheerfulness and joy--this home and child of all the arts--this temple where the architect, the sculptor and painter united to build and decorate a stage whereon the drama with a thousand tongues will tell the frailties and the virtues of the human race, and music with her thrilling voice will touch the source of happy tears.
This is a fitting monument to the man whose memory we honor--to one, who broadening with the years, outgrew the cruel creeds, the heartless dogmas of his time--to one who passed from superstition to science--from religion to reason--from theology to humanity--from slavery to freedom--from the shadow of fear to the blessed light of love and courage. To one who believed in intellectual hospitality--in the perfect freedom of the soul, and hated tyranny, in every form, with all his heart.
To one whose head and hands were in partnership constituting the firm of Intelligence and Industry, and whose heart divided the profits with his fellow-men. To one who fought the battle of life alone, without the aid of place or wealth, and yet grew nobler and gentler with success.
To one who tried to make a heaven here and who believed in the blessed gospel of cheerfulness and love--of happiness and hope.
And it is fitting, too, that this monument should be adorned with the sublime faces, wrought in stone, of the immortal dead--of those who battled for the rights of man--who broke the fetters of the slave--of those who filled the minds of men with poetry, art, and light--of Voltaire, who abolished torture in France and who did more for liberty than any other of the sons of men--of Thomas Paine, whose pen did as much as any sword to make the New World free--of Victor Hugo, who wept for those who weep--of Emerson, a worshiper of the Ideal, who filled the mind with suggestions of the perfect--of Goethe, the poet-philosopher--of Whitman, the ample, wide as the sky--author of the tenderest, the most pathetic, the sublimest poem that this continent has produced--of Shakespeare, the King of all--of Beethoven, the divine,--of Chopin and Verdi and of Wagner, grandest of them all, whose music satisfies the heart and brain and fills imagination's sky--of George Eliot, who wove within her brain the purple robe her genius wears--of George Sand, subtle and sincere, passionate and free--and with these--faces of those who, on the stage, have made the mimic world as real as life and death.
Beneath the loftiest monuments may be found ambition's worthless dust, while those who lived the loftiest lives are sleeping now in unknown graves.
It may be that the bravest of the brave who ever fell upon the field of ruthless war, was left without a grave to mingle slowly with the land he saved.
But here and now the Man and Monument agree, and blend like sounds that meet and melt in melody--a monument for the dead--a blessing for the living--a memory of tears--a prophecy of joy.
Fortunate the people where this good man lived, for they are all his heirs--and fortunate for me that I have had the privilege of laying this little laurel leaf upon his unstained brow.
And now, speaking for those he loved--for those who represent the honored dead--I dedicate this home of mirth and song--of poetry and art--to the memory of Philo D. Beckwith--a true philosopher--a real philanthropist.
A TRIBUTE TO ANTON SEIDL.
A telegram read at the funeral services in the Metropolitan Opera House, New York City, March 31, 1898.
IN the noon and zenith of his career, in the flush and glory of success, Anton Seidl, the greatest orchestral leader of all time, the perfect interpreter of Wagner, of all his subtlety and sympathy, his heroism and grandeur, his intensity and limitless passion, his wondrous harmonies that tell of all there is in life, and touch the longings and the hopes of every heart, has passed from the shores of sound to the realm of silence, borne by the mysterious and resistless tide that ever ebbs but never flows.
All moods were his. Delicate as the perfume of the first violet, wild as the storm, he knew the music of all sounds, from the rustle of leaves, the whisper of hidden springs, to the voices of the sea.
He was the master of music, from the rhythmical strains of irresponsible joy to the sob of the funeral march.
He stood like a king with his sceptre in his hand, and we knew that every tone and harmony were in his brain, every passion in his breast, and yet his sculptured face was as calm, as serene as perfect art. He mingled his soul with the music and gave his heart to the enchanted air.
He appeared to have no limitations, no walls, no chains. He seemed to follow the pathway of desire, and the marvelous melodies, the sublime harmonies, were as free as eagles above the clouds with outstretched wings.
He educated, refined, and gave unspeakable joy to many thousands of his fellow-men. He added to the grace and glory of life. He spoke a language deeper, more poetic than words--the language of the perfect, the language of love and death.
But he is voiceless now; a fountain of harmony has ceased. Its inspired strains have died away in night, and all its murmuring melodies are strangely still.
We will mourn for him, we will honor him, not in words, but in the language that he used.
Anton Seidl is dead. Play the great funeral march. Envelop him in music.
Let its wailing waves cover him. Let its wild and mournful winds sigh and moan above him. Give his face to its kisses and its tears.
Play the great funeral march, music as profound as death. That will express our sorrow--that will voice our love, our hope, and that will tell of the life, the triumph, the genius, the death of Anton Seidl.