Facts were the foundation of his faith; history was his prophet; reason his guide; duty his deity; happiness the end; intelligence the means. He knew that man must be the providence of man. He did not believe in Religion and Science, but in the Religion of Science--that is to say, wisdom glorified by love, the Savior of our race--the religion that conquers prejudice and hatred, that drives all superstition from the mind, that ennobles, lengthens and enriches life, that drives from every home the wolves of want, from every heart the fiends of selfishness and fear, and from every brain the monsters of the night. He lived and labored for his fellow-men. He sided with the weak and poor against the strong and rich. He welcomed light. His face was ever toward the East. According to his light he lived. "The world was his country--to do good his religion." There is no language to express a nobler creed than this; nothing can be grander, more comprehensive, nearer perfect. This was the creed that glorified his life and made his death sublime. He was afraid to do wrong, and for that reason was not afraid to die. He knew that the end was near. He knew that his work was done. He stood within the twilight, within the deepening gloom, knowing that for the last time the gold was fading from the West and that there could not fall again within his eyes the trembling lustre of another dawn. He knew that night had come, and yet his soul was filled with light, for in that night the memory of his generous deeds shone out like stars. What can we say? What words can solve the mystery of life, the mystery of death? What words can justly pay a tribute to the man who lived to his ideal, who spoke his honest thought, and who was turned aside neither by envy, nor hatred, nor contumely, nor slander, nor scorn, nor fear? What words will do that life the justice that we know and feel? A heart breaks, a man dies, a leaf falls in the far forest, a babe is born, and the great world sweeps on. By the grave of man stands the angel of Silence. No one can tell which is better--Life with its gleams and shadows, its thrills and pangs, its ecstasy and tears, its wreaths and thorns, its crowns, its glories and Golgothas, or Death, with its peace, its rest, its cool and placid brow that hath within no memory or fear of grief or pain. Farewell, dear friend. The world is better for your life--The world is braver for your death. Farewell! We loved you living, and we love you now. A TRIBUTE TO MRS. MARY H. FISKE. At Scottish Rite Hall, New York, February 6, 1889. 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, a few words of kindness, of regret, of love, and hope. In this presence, let us speak of the goodness, 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.