{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:tribute-to-isaac-h-bailey",
  "slug": "tribute-to-isaac-h-bailey",
  "title": "A Tribute to Isaac H. Bailey",
  "subtitle": "Memorial tribute.",
  "excerpt": "Memorial tribute to Isaac H. Bailey.",
  "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-isaac-h-bailey/",
  "wordCount": 1552,
  "body": "A Tribute to Isaac H. Bailey\n\nNew York, March 27, 1899.\n\nMY FRIENDS: When one whom we hold dear has reached the end of life and\nlaid his burden down, it is but natural for us, his friends, to pay the\ntribute of respect and love; to tell his virtues, to express our sense\nof loss and speak above the sculptured clay some word of hope.\n\nOur friend, about whose bier we stand, was in the highest, noblest sense\na man. He was not born to wealth—he was his own providence, his own\nteacher. With him work was worship and labor was his only prayer. He\ndepended on himself, and was as independent as it is possible for man to\nbe. He hated debt, and obligation was a chain that scarred his flesh. He\nlived a long and useful life. In age he reaped with joy what he had cown\nin youth. He did not linger \"until his flame lacked oil,\" but with his\nsenses keen, his mind undimmed, and with his arms filled with gathered\nsheaves, in an instant, painlessly, unconsciously, he passed from\nhappiness and health to the realm of perfect peace. We need not mourn\nfor him, but for ourselves, for those he loved.\n\nHe was an absolutely honest man—a man who kept his word, who fulfilled\nhis contracts, gave heaped and rounded measure and discharged all\nobligations with the fabled chivalry of ancient knights. He was\nabsolutely honest, not only with others but with himself. To his last\nmoment his soul was stainless. He was true to his ideal—true to his\nthought, and what his brain conceived his lips expressed. He refused to\npretend. He knew that to believe without evidence was impossible to\nthe sound and sane, and that to say you believed when you did not, was\npossible only to the hypocrite or coward. He did not believe in the\nsupernatural. He was a natural man and lived a natural life. He had no\nfear of fiends. He cared nothing for the guesses of inspired savages;\nnothing for the threats or promises of the sainted and insane.\n\nHe enjoyed this life—the good things of this world—the clasp and\nsmile of friendship, the exchange of generous deeds, the reasonable\ngratification of the senses—of the wants of the body and mind. He was\nneither an insane ascetic nor a fool of pleasure, but walked the\ngolden path along the strip of verdure that lies between the deserts of\nextremes.\n\nWith him to do right was not simply a duty, it was a pleasure. He had\nphilosophy enough to know that the quality of actions depends upon\ntheir consequences, and that these consequences are the rewards and\npunishments that no God can give, inflict, withhold or pardon.\n\nHe loved his country, he was proud of the heroic past, dissatisfied\nwith the present, and confident of the future. He stood on the rock\nof principle. With him the wisest policy was to do right. He would not\ncompromise with wrong. He had no respect for political failures who\nbecame reformers and decorated fraud with the pretence of philanthropy,\nor sought to gain some private end in the name of public good. He\ndespised time-servers, trimmers, fawners and all sorts and kinds of\npretenders.\n\nHe believed in national honesty; in the preservation of public faith.\nHe believed that the Government should discharge every obligation—the\nimplied as faithfully as the expressed. And I would be unjust to his\nmemory if I did not say that he believed in honest money, in the best\nmoney in the world, in pure gold, and that he despised with all his\nheart financial frauds, and regarded fifty cents that pretended to be a\ndollar, as he would a thief in the uniform of a policeman, or a criminal\nin the robe of a judge.\n\nHe believed in liberty, and liberty for all. He pitied the slave and\nhated the master; that is to say, he was an honest man. In the dark days\nof the Rebellion he stood for the right. He loved Lincoln with all his\nheart—loved him for his genius, his courage and his goodness. He\nloved Conkling—loved him for his independence, his manhood, for his\nunwavering courage, and because he would not bow or bend—loved him\nbecause he accepted defeat with the pride of a victor. He loved Grant,\nand in the temple of his heart, over the altar, in the highest niche,\nstood the great soldier.\n\nNature was kind to our friend. She gave him the blessed gift of humor.\nThis filled his days with the climate of Autumn, so that to him even\ndisaster had its sunny side. On account of his humor he appreciated and\nenjoyed the great literature of the world. He loved Shakespeare, his\nclowns and heroes. He appreciated and enjoyed Dickens. The characters of\nthis great novelist were his acquaintances. He knew them all; some were\nhis friends and some he dearly loved. He had wit of the keenest\nand quickest. The instant the steel of his logic smote the flint of\nabsurdity the spark glittered. And yet, his wit was always kind.\nThe flower went with the thorn. The targets of his wit were not made\nenemies, but admirers.\n\nHe was social, and after the feast of serious conversation he loved the\nwine of wit—the dessert of a good story that blossomed into mirth. He\nenjoyed games—was delighted by the relations of chance—the curious\ncombinations of accident. He had the genius of friendship. In his nature\nthere was no suspicion. He could not be poisoned against a friend.\nThe arrows of slander never pierced the shield of his confidence. He\ndemanded demonstration. He defended a friend as he defended himself.\nAgainst all comers he stood firm, and he never deserted the field until\nthe friend had fled. I have known many, many friends—have clasped the\nhands of many that I loved, but in the journey of my life I have never\ngrasped the hand of a better, truer, more unselfish friend than he who\nlies before us clothed in the perfect peace of death. He loved me living\nand I love him now.\n\nIn youth we front the sun; we live in light without a fear, without a\nthought of dusk or night. We glory in excess. There is no dread of loss\nwhen all is growth and gain. With reckless hands we spend and waste and\nchide the flying hours for loitering by the way.\n\nThe future holds the fruit of joy; the present keeps us from the feast,\nand so, with hurrying feet we climb the heights and upward look with\neager eyes. But when the sun begins to sink and shadows fall in front,\nand lengthen on the path, then falls upon the heart a sense of loss, and\nthen we hoard the shreds and crumbs and vainly long for what was cast\naway. And then with miser care we save and spread thin hands before\nDecember's half-fed flickering flames, while through the glass of time\nwe moaning watch the few remaining grains of sand that hasten to their\nend. In the gathering gloom the fires slowly die, while memory dreams of\nyouth, and hope sometimes mistakes the glow of ashes for the coming of\nanother morn.\n\nBut our friend was an exception. He lived in the present; he enjoyed\nthe sunshine of to-day. Although his feet had touched the limit of\nfour-score, he had not reached the time to stop, to turn and think:\nabout the traveled road. He was still full of life and hope, and had the\ninterest of youth in all the affairs of men.\n\nHe had no fear of the future—no dread. He was ready for the end. I have\noften heard him repeat the words of Epicurus: \"Why should I fear death?\nIf I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that\nwhich cannot exist when I do?\"\n\nIf there is, beyond the veil, beyond the night called death, another\nworld to which men carry all the failures and the triumphs of this life;\nif above and over all there be a God who loves the right, an honest man\nhas naught to fear. If there be another world in which sincerity is a\nvirtue, in which fidelity is loved and courage honored, then all is well\nwith the dear friend whom we have lost.\n\nBut if the grave ends all; if all that was our friend is dead, the\nworld is better for the life he lived. Beyond the tomb we cannot see. We\nlisten, but from the lips of mystery there comes no word. Darkness and\nsilence brooding over all. And yet, because we love we hope. Farewell!\nAnd yet again, Farewell!\n\nAnd will there, sometime, be another world? We have our dream. The idea\nof immortality, that like a sea has ebbed and flowed in the human heart,\nbeating with its countless waves against the sands and rocks of time\nand fate, was not born of any book or of any creed. It was born of\naffection. And it will continue to ebb and flow beneath the mists and\nclouds of doubt and darkness, as long as love kisses the lips of death.\nWe have our dream!\n"
}