{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:tribute-to-dr-thomas-seton-robertson",
  "slug": "tribute-to-dr-thomas-seton-robertson",
  "title": "A Tribute to Dr. Thomas Seton Robertson",
  "subtitle": "Memorial tribute.",
  "excerpt": "Memorial tribute to Dr. Thomas Seton Robertson.",
  "year": 1898,
  "volume": 12,
  "category": "Tribute",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/tribute-to-dr-thomas-seton-robertson/",
  "wordCount": 444,
  "body": "A Tribute to Dr. Thomas Seton Robertson\n\nNew York September 8, 1898.\n\nIN the pulseless hush of death, silence seems more expressive, more\nappropriate—than speech. In the presence of the Great Mystery, the\ngreat mystery that waits to enshroud us all, we feel the uselessness of\nwords. But where a fellow-mortal has reached his journey's end—where\nthe darkness from which he emerged has received him again, it is but\nnatural for his friends to mingle with their grief, expressions of their\nlove and loss.\n\nHe who lies before us in the sleep of death was generous to his\nfellow-men. His hands were always stretched to help, to save. He pitied\nthe friendless, the unfortunate, the hopeless—proud of his skill—of\nhis success. He was quick to decide—to act—prompt, tireless, forgetful\nof self. He lengthened life and conquered pain—hundreds are well and\nhappy now because he lived. This is enough. This puts a star above the\ngloom of death.\n\nHe was sensitive to the last degree—quick to feel a slight—to resent\na wrong—but in the warmth of kindness the thorn of hatred blossomed. He\nwas not quite fashioned for this world. The flints and thorns on life's\nhighway bruised and pierced his flesh, and for his wounds he did\nnot have the blessed balm of patience. He felt the manacles, the\nlimitations—the imprisonments of life and so within the walls and bars\nhe wore his very soul away. He could not bear the storms. The tides,\nthe winds, the waves, in the morning of his life, dashed his frail bark\nagainst the rocks.\n\nHe fought as best he could, and that he failed was not his fault.\n\nHe was honest, generous and courageous. These three great virtues were\nhis. He was a true and steadfast friend, seeing only the goodness of the\nones he loved. Only a great and noble heart is capable of this.\n\nBut he has passed beyond the reach of praise or blame—passed to the\nrealm of rest—to the waveless calm of perfect peace.\n\nThe storm is spent—the winds are hushed—the waves have died along the\nshore—the tides are still—the aching heart has ceased to beat, and\nwithin the brain all thoughts, all hopes and fears—ambitions, memories,\nrejoicings and regrets—all images and pictures of the world, of\nlife, are now as though they had not been. And yet Hope, the child of\nLove—the deathless, beyond the darkness sees the dawn. And we who knew\nand loved him, we, who now perform the last sad rites—the last that\nfriendship can suggest—\"will keep his memory green.\"\n\nDear Friend, farewell! \"If we do meet again we shall smile indeed—if\nnot, this parting is well made.\" Farewell!\n"
}