{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:tribute-to-horace-seaver",
  "slug": "tribute-to-horace-seaver",
  "title": "A Tribute to Horace Seaver",
  "subtitle": "Memorial tribute to the editor of the Boston Investigator.",
  "excerpt": "Memorial tribute to Horace Seaver — for decades the editor of the Boston Investigator, the oldest freethought journal in America.",
  "year": 1889,
  "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-horace-seaver/",
  "wordCount": 2302,
  "body": "A Tribute to Horace Seaver\n\nAt Paine Hall, Boston, August 25, 1889.\n  • The eulogy pronounced at the funeral of Horace Shaver In\n    Paine Hall last Sunday was the tribute of one great man to\n    another. To have Robert G. Ingersoll speak words of praise\n    above the silent form is fame; to deserve these words is\n    immortality.—The Boston Investigator, August 28, 1889.\n\nHORACE SEAVER was a pioneer, a torch-bearer, a toiler in that great\nfield we call the world—a worker for his fellow-men. At the end of his\ntask he has fallen asleep, and we are met to tell the story of his long\nand useful life—to pay our tribute to his work and worth.\n\nHe was one who saw the dawn while others lived in night. He kept his\nface toward the \"purpling east\" and watched the coming of the blessed\nday.\n\nHe always sought for light. His object was to know—to find a reason for\nhis faith—a fact on which to build.\n\nIn superstition's sands he sought the gems of truth; in superstition's\nnight he looked for stars.\n\nBorn in New England—reared amidst the cruel superstitions of his age\nand time, he had the manhood and the courage to investigate, and he had\nthe goodness and the courage to tell his honest thoughts.\n\nHe was always kind, and sought to win the confidence of men by sympathy\nand love. There was no taint or touch of malice in his blood. To him\nhis fellows did not seem depraved—they were not wholly bad—there was\nwithin the heart of each the seeds of good. He knew that back of every\nthought and act were forces uncontrolled. He wisely said: \"Circumstances\nfurnish the seeds of good and evil, and man is but the soil in which\nthey grow.\" Horace Seaver was crowned with the wreath of his own deeds,\nwoven by the generous hand of a noble friend. He fought the creed, and\nloved the man. He pitied those who feared and shuddered at the thought\nof death—who dwelt in darkness and in dread.\n\nThe religion of his day filled his heart with horror.\n\nHe was kind, compassionate, and tender, and could not fall upon his\nknees before a cruel and revengeful God—he could not bow to one\nwho slew with famine, sword and fire—to one pitiless as pestilence,\nrelentless as the lightning stroke. Jehovah had no attribute that he\ncould love.\n\nHe attacked the creed of New England—a creed that had within it\nthe ferocity of Knox, the malice of Calvin, the cruelty of Jonathan\nEdwards—a religion that had a monster for a God—a religion whose\ndogmas would have shocked cannibals feasting upon babes.\n\nHorace Seaver followed the light of his brain—the impulse of his heart.\nHe was attacked, but he answered the insulter with a smile; and even he\nwho coined malignant lies was treated as a friend misled. He did not\nask God to forgive his enemies—he forgave them himself. He was sincere.\nSincerity is the true and perfect mirror of the mind. It reflects the\nhonest thought. It is the foundation of character, and without it there\nis no moral grandeur.\n\nSacred are the lips from which has issued only truth. Over all wealth,\nabove all station, above the noble, the robed and crowned, rises the\nsincere man. Happy is the man who neither paints nor patches, veils nor\nveneers. Blessed is he who wears no mask.\n\nThe man who lies before us wrapped in perfect peace, practiced no art to\nhide or half conceal his thought. He did not write or speak the double\nwords that might be useful in retreat. He gave a truthful transcript of\nhis mind, and sought to make his meaning clear as light.\n\nTo use his own words, he had \"the courage which impels a man to do\nhis duty, to hold fast his integrity, to maintain a conscience void\nof offence, at every hazard and at every sacrifice, in defiance of the\nworld.\"\n\nHe lived to his ideal. He sought the approbation of himself. He did not\nbuild his character upon the opinions of others, and it was out of the\nvery depths of his nature that he asked this profound question:\n\n\"What is there in other men that makes us desire their approbation, and\nfear their censure more than our own?\"\n\nHorace Seaver was a good and loyal citizen of the mental republic—a\nbeliever in, intellectual hospitality, one who knew that bigotry is\nborn of ignorance and fear—the provincialisms of the brain. He did\nnot belong to the tribe, or to the nation, but to the human race. His\nsympathy was wide as want, and, like the sky, bent above the suffering\nworld.\n\nThis man had that superb thing called moral courage—courage in its\nhighest form. He knew that his thoughts were not the thoughts of\nothers—that he was with the few, and that where one would take his\nside, thousands would be his eager foes. He knew that wealth would\nscorn and cultured ignorance deride, and that believers in the creeds,\nbuttressed by law and custom, would hurl the missiles of revenge and\nhate. He knew that lies, like snakes, would fill the pathway of his\nlife—and yet he told his honest thought—told it without hatred and\nwithout contempt—told it as it really was. And so, through all his\ndays, his heart was sound and stainless to the core.\n\nWhen he enlisted in the army whose banner is light, the honest\ninvestigator was looked upon as lost and cursed, and even Christian\ncriminals held him in contempt. The believing embezzler, the orthodox\nwife-beater, even the murderer, lifted his bloody hands and thanked God\nthat on his soul there was no stain of unbelief.\n\nIn nearly every State of our Republic, the man who denied the\nabsurdities and impossibilities lying at the foundation of what is\ncalled orthodox religion, was denied his civil rights. He was not\ncanopied by the aegis of the law. He stood beyond the reach of sympathy.\nHe was not allowed to testify against the invader of his home, the\nseeker for his life—his lips were closed. He was declared dishonorable,\nbecause he was honest. His unbelief made him a social leper, a pariah,\nan outcast. He was the victim of religious hate and scorn. Arrayed\nagainst him were all the prejudices and all the forces and hypocrisies\nof society. All mistakes and lies were his enemies. Even the Theist was\ndenounced as a disturber of the peace, although he told his thoughts in\nkind and candid words. He was called a blasphemer, because he sought to\nrescue the reputation of his God from the slanders of orthodox priests.\n\nSuch was the bigotry of the time, that natural love was lost. The\nunbelieving son was hated by his pious sire, and even the mother's heart\nwas by her creed turned into stone.\n\nHorace Seaver pursued his way. He worked and wrought as best he could,\nin solitude and want. He knew the day would come. He lived to be\nrewarded for his toil—to see most of the laws repealed that had made\noutcasts of the noblest, the wisest, and the best. He lived to see the\nforemost preachers of the world attack the sacred creeds. He lived to\nsee the sciences released from superstition's clutch. He lived to see\nthe orthodox theologian take his place with the professor of the\nblack art, the fortune-teller, and the astrologer. He lived to see\nthe greatest of the world accept his thought—to see the theologian\ndisplaced by the true priests of Nature—by Humboldt and Darwin, by\nHuxley and Haeckel.\n\nWithin the narrow compass of his life the world was changed. The\nrailway, the steamship, and the telegraph made all nations neighbors.\nCountless inventions have made the luxuries of the past the necessities\nof to-day. Life has been enriched, and man ennobled. The geologist has\nread the records of frost and flame, of wind and wave—the astronomer\nhas told the story of the stars—the biologist has sought the germ of\nlife, and in every department of knowledge the torch of science sheds\nits sacred light.\n\nThe ancient creeds have grown absurd. The miracles are small and mean.\nThe inspired book is filled with fables told to please a childish world,\nand the dogma of eternal pain now shocks the heart and brain.\n\nHe lived to see a monument unveiled to Bruno in the city of Rome—to\nGiordano Bruno—that great man who two hundred and eighty-nine years ago\nsuffered death for having proclaimed the truths that since have\nfilled the world with joy. He lived to see the victim of the church a\nvictor—lived to see his memory honored by a nation freed from papal\nchains.\n\nHe worked knowing what the end must be—expecting little while he\nlived—but knowing that every fact in the wide universe was on his side.\nHe knew that truth can wait, and so he worked patient as eternity.\n\nHe had the brain of a philosopher and the heart of a child.\n\nHorace Seaver was a man of common sense.\n\nBy that I mean, one who knows the law of average. He denied the Bible,\nnot on account of what has been discovered in astronomy, or the length\nof time it took to form the delta of the Nile—but he compared the\nthings he found with what he knew.\n\nHe knew that antiquity added nothing to probability—that lapse of time\ncan never take the place of cause, and that the dust can never gather\nthick enough upon mistakes to make them equal with the truth.\n\nHe knew that the old, by no possibility, could have been more wonderful\nthan the new, and that the present is a perpetual torch by which we know\nthe past.\n\nTo him all miracles were mistakes, whose parents were cunning and\ncredulity. He knew that miracles were not, because they are not.\n\nHe believed in the sublime, unbroken, and eternal march of causes and\neffects—denying the chaos of chance, and the caprice of power.\n\nHe tested the past by the now, and judged of all the men and races of\nthe world by those he knew.\n\nHe believed in the religion of free thought and good deed—of character,\nof sincerity, of honest endeavor, of cheerful help—and above all, in\nthe religion of love and liberty—in a religion for every day—for\nthe world in which we live—for the present—the religion of roof and\nraiment, of food, of intelligence, of intellectual hospitality—the\nreligion that gives health and happiness, freedom and content—in the\nreligion of work, and in the ceremonies of honest labor.\n\nHe lived for this world; if there be another, he will live for that.\n\nHe did what he could for the destruction of fear—the destruction of\nthe imaginary monster who rewards the few in heaven—the monster who\ntortures the many in perdition.\n\nHe was a friend of all the world, and sought to civilize the human race.\n\nFor more than fifty years he labored to free the bodies and the souls\nof men—and many thousands have read his words with joy. He sought the\nsuffering and oppressed. He sat by those in pain—and his helping hand\nwas laid in pity on the brow of death.\n\nHe asked only to be treated as he treated others. He asked for only what\nhe earned, and had the manhood cheerfully to accept the consequences of\nhis actions. He expected no reward for the goodness of another.\n\nBut he has lived his life. We should shed no tears except the tears of\ngratitude. We should rejoice that he lived so long.\n\nIn Nature's course, his time had come. The four seasons were complete\nin him. The Spring could never come again. The measure of his years was\nfull.\n\nWhen the day is done—when the work of a life is finished—when the gold\nof evening meets the dusk of night, beneath the silent stars the tired\nlaborer should fall asleep. To outlive usefulness is a double death.\n\"Let me not live after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger\nspirits.\"\n\nWhen the old oak is visited in vain by Spring—when light and rain no\nlonger thrill—it is not well to stand leafless, desolate, and alone. It\nis better far to fall where Nature softly covers all with woven moss and\ncreeping vine.\n\nHow little, after all, we know of what is ill or well! How little of\nthis wondrous stream of cataracts and pools—this stream of life, that\nrises in a world unknown, and flows to that mysterious sea whose shore\nthe foot of one who comes has never pressed! How little of this life we\nknow—this struggling ray of light 'twixt gloom and gloom—this strip of\nland by verdure clad, between the unknown wastes—this throbbing moment\nfilled with love and pain—this dream that lies between the shadowy\nshores of sleep and death!\n\nWe stand upon this verge of crumbling time. We love, we hope, we\ndisappear. Again we mingle with the dust, and the \"knot intrinsicate\"\nforever falls apart.\n\nBut this we know: A noble life enriches all the world.\n\nHorace Seaver lived for others. He accepted toil and hope deferred.\nPoverty was his portion. Like Socrates, he did not seek to adorn his\nbody, but rather his soul with the jewels of charity, modesty, courage,\nand above all, with a love of liberty.\n\nFarewell, O brave and modest man!\n\nYour lips, between which truths burst into blossom, are forever closed.\nYour loving heart has ceased to beat. Your busy brain is still, and from\nyour hand has dropped the sacred torch.\n\nYour noble, self-denying life has honored us, and we will honor you.\n\nYou were my friend, and I was yours. Above your silent clay I pay this\ntribute to your worth.\n\nFarewell!\n"
}