Evening journal. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1888-1932, 1889-02-07
PEARLS OF ORATORY.
Robert Ingersoll's Eulogy of
Mary Fiske.
MYSTERIES OF LIFE AND DEATH.


Remarkable Funeral Ceremony Over One
Who Believed Little. but Hoped for
Much, and Who PATTERNED After None"
She Wrote As Stream Runs"
New YoRK, Feb. THE funeral service
over the remains Of Mary Fiske, the play
writer and dramatic author, was held at the
Scottish Rite hall. Fight hundred tickets Of
admission had been distributed. The choir
gallery was occupied by quartet from Dock
stader's minstrels, Mr.. Williams, the organist,
and Nine Julie de Ryther and Sig. Perugini
The altar was buried under an avalanche of
flowers, arranged in the form Of harps, cres-
cents pillows and other beautiful designs
The services began with the singing Of
'''rhe Lost Chordn by Mr.. John McQuade and
quartet Then Mr.. Harry Edwards made
an address, from which the following is taken:
ITO those who are familiar with the writ
ings of our friend there win arise the recol-
.lections Of many Of her musings upon the
strange condition to which we have given the
name of death, and while in her terse and
| epigrammatic manner she says, i don't be-
lieve much, but hope for a great deal she
has also in a beautiful passage foreshadowed
what we would all apply to her now: If
beyond this heartache and headache we call
living there is any reward for the dwelers
| on earth, the crown must rest upon that
golden head that never conceived an evil
thing, the palm must reach that gentle, gener-
GUS hand that was helpful and open to all ~
solo axyN do Ixvft4
titled "Neyer Forget followed by Col.
Robert G. Ingersoll's address The colonel
was visibly affected and the auditors listened
intently to his words, which were as follows:
| My friends: In the presence Of the two
! great mysteries life and death, we are met 70
say above this still unconscious house of clay
a few words Of kindness, Of regret of love
and hope.
I'm this presence let us speak of the good
ness, 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
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 winding streams,
and down the wales and over the crags wher-
ever fancy led. She wrote lines that leap
with laughter and words that were wet with
tears She gave US quaint thoughts and say
ings filled with the pert and nimble spirit Of
mirth. Her pages were lecked 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 when
others wept, but IN her own misfortunes found
the food of hope. She cared for the to-mor-
row Of Others but not for her own. She
lived for to-day.
'Some hearts are like waveless pools, salts
fed to hold the image of a wondrous star:
but hers was full of motion, life and storm
She longed for freedom. Every limitation
was prisoners wall Rules were shackles,
and forms were made for serfs and slaves
She gave her utmost thought She praised
ell generous deeds and applauded the strug-
Cling, 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 in
habitants Of palaces and penitentiaries might
change places without adding TO the injustice
Of the world. She knew that circumstances
and conditions determined character, that
the lowest and worst of our race were chill
dren once as pure as light, whose cheeks dim
pied with smiles beneath the heaven Of a
mothers eyes. She thought of the road they
had travelled of the thorns that pierced their
feet, of the deserts they had crossed; and 50
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 struggling turned natur-
ally TO her. The manned and hurt sought her
door, and the helpless put their hands in hers.
She shielded the weak and attracted the
strong. Her heart was open as the gates Of
Il 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, winds and
babbles through the shadowy fields that falls
in the foam Of fight and and haste, and laugh
ing joins the sea.
"a little while ago babe was found, one
that had been abandoned by the mother, left
as a legacy to chance or fate. The warm
heart Of Mary Fiske, now cold in death, was
touched. She took the little waif and held il
lovingly to her breast and made the child her
own.
I'VE pray thee, Mother Nature, that thou
viii 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.
I'm this presence let us remember our
faults, our frailities and the generous, helpful,
self denying, loving deeds of Mary Fisken
After the delivery of the address Sig.
Perugini sang Schubert's LAST Greeting :
Then the audience filed up the aisle and took
a last look at the face Of the dead.
The body was this morning taken TO Hart
ford Conn, for interment in the family burial
plot at Cedar Hill cemetery.
xvfro :.