Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-02-07
PEARLS OF ORATORY.
Robert Ingersoll's Eulogy of
 Mary Fiske.
MYSTERIES OF LIFE AND DEATH

Who Believed Little, but Hoped for
 Much, and Who ''Patterned After None."
 She ''Wrote As n Stream Runs"
 NEW YORK, Feb 7.-The funeral service
 over the remains of Mary Fiske, the play
 writer and dramatic author, was held at the
 Scottish Rite hall. Eight hundred tickets of
 admission had been distributed. The choir
 gallery was occupied by quartet from Dock
 staders minstres, Mir. Williams, the organist,
 and Mme Julie de Ryther an 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
 ''The Lost Chord" by MT. John McQuade and
 quartet. Then MT. Harry Edwards made an address from which the following is taken:
 ''To those who are familiar with the writ
 ings of our friend there will arise the rccol-
 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 epigrnmmatic manner she says, I don't be- heve much, but hope for 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- ous hand that was helpful and open to all'"
 Then came q solo by Mmc. de Ryther en- titled "Never Forget" followed by Col. Robert G. Ingersolls 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 to say above this still unconscious house of clay & few words of kindness, of regret, of love and hope.
 "In 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 f1ecked with sunshine and shadow, and in every word were the pulse | and breath of life. Her heart went out to all | the wretched i'll 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- | TOW of others, but not for her own. She | lived for to-day.
 ''Some hearts are like waveless pools, satis- | fn hnl. fhn ne 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 l She gave her utmost thought She praised | all generous deeds and applauded the strug- glinS, 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 To her there were no outcasts- they were victims She knew that tho in habitants or palaces and penitentiares 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 chil- 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 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.
 1.-The destitute and struggling turned natur- ally to her. The maimed 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 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 flight and and haste, and laugh ing joins the sea-
 "A little while ago a babe was found, one that had been abandoned by the mother. left as legacy to chance or fate. The warm heart of Mary Fiske now cold in death. was touched She took the little waif and held it lovingly to her breast and made the child her own.
 "We pray thee, Mother Nature, that thou will take this woman and hold her as tenderly ln thy arms as Sne nelQ ana pressed against | her generous, throbbing heart the abandoned babe. We ask no more
 "In this presence let us remember our faults, our frailities and the generous, helpful, self denying, loving deeds of Mary Fiske."
 After the delivery of the address Sig. Perugini sang Schubert's "Last Greeting" Then the audience filed up the aisle and took B 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.
 Sullivan's Wife a Salvationist.
 PROVIDENCE, Feb. Mrs. John L. Sul- ivan, wife of the Boston champion, recently eft the Methodist Episcopal church and joined the Salvation Army. She was re- ,ruited through the efforts of Capt. Rowland, who is a married man. Mrs. Sullivan has been a regular attendant at the army bar racks every Sunday. All went we'll until last Sunday. Then Mrs. Rowland made trouble n the camp by accusing Mrs. Sullivan in the midst of the exhortations of an altogether too friendly intimacy with her husband the cap-