{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-12:tribute-to-john-g-mills",
  "slug": "tribute-to-john-g-mills",
  "title": "A Tribute to John G. Mills",
  "subtitle": "Grave-side tribute.",
  "excerpt": "Grave-side tribute to John G. Mills.",
  "year": 1884,
  "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-john-g-mills/",
  "wordCount": 691,
  "body": "A Tribute to John G. Mills\n\nWashington, D. C., April 15, 1883.\n\nMY FRIENDS: Again we are face to face with the great mystery that\nshrouds this world. We question, but there is no reply. Out on the wide\nwaste seas, there drifts no spar. Over the desert of death the sphinx\ngazes forever, but never speaks.\n\nIn the very May of life another heart has ceased to beat. Night has\nfallen upon noon. But he lived, he loved, he was loved. Wife and\nchildren pressed their kisses on his lips. This is enough. The longest\nlife contains no more. This fills the vase of joy.\n\nHe who lies here, clothed with the perfect peace of death, was a kind\nand loving husband, a good father, a generous neighbor, an honest\nman,—and these words build a monument of glory above the humblest\ngrave. He was always a child, sincere and frank, as full of hope as\nSpring. He divided all time into to-day and to-morrow. To-morrow was\nwithout a cloud, and of to-morrow he borrowed sunshine for to-day. He\nwas my friend. He will remain so. The living oft become estranged; the\ndead are true. He was not a Christian. In the Eden of his hope there\ndid not crawl and coil the serpent of eternal pain. In many languages\nhe sought the thoughts of men, and for himself he solved the problems of\nthe world. He accepted the philosophy of Auguste Comte. Humanity was his\nGod; the human race was his Supreme Being. In that Supreme Being he put\nhis trust. He believed that we are indebted for what we enjoy to the\nlabor, the self-denial, the heroism of the human race, and that as we\nhave plucked the fruit of what others planted, we in thankfulness should\nplant for others yet to be.\n\nWith him immortality was the eternal consequences of his own acts. He\nbelieved that every pure thought, every disinterested deed, hastens the\nharvest of universal good. This is a religion that enriches poverty;\nthat enables us to bear the sorrows of the saddest life; that peoples\neven solitude with the happy millions yet to live,—a religion born\nnot of selfishness and fear, but of love, of gratitude, and hope,—a\nreligion that digs wells to slake the thirst of others, and gladly bears\nthe burdens of the unborn.\n\nBut in the presence of death, how beliefs and dogmas wither and decay!\nHow loving words and deeds burst into blossom! Pluck from the tree\nof any life these flowers, and there remain but the barren thorns of\nbigotry and creed.\n\nAll wish for happiness beyond this life. All hope to meet again\nthe loved and lost. In every heart there grows this sacred flower.\nImmortality is a word that Hope through all the ages has been whispering\nto Love. The miracle of thought we cannot understand. The mystery of\nlife and death we cannot comprehend. This chaos called the world has\nnever been explained. The golden bridge of life from gloom emerges, and\non shadow rests. Beyond this we do not know. Fate is speechless, destiny\nis dumb, and the secret of the future has never yet been told. We love;\nwe wait; we hope. The more we love, the more we fear. Upon the tenderest\nheart the deepest shadows fall. All paths, whether filled with thorns\nor flowers, end here. Here success and failure are the same. The rag of\nWretchedness and the purple robe of power all difference and distinction\nlose in this democracy of death. Character survives; goodness lives;\nlove is immortal.\n\nAnd yet to all a time may come when the fevered lips of life will long\nfor the cool, delicious kiss of death—when tired of the dust and glare\nof day we all shall hear with joy the rustling garments of the night.\n\nWhat can we say of death? What can we say of the dead? Where they have\ngone, reason cannot go, and from thence revelation has not come. But let\nus believe that over the cradle Nature bends and smiles, and lovingly\nabove the dead in benediction holds her outstretched hands.\n"
}