But he has lived his life. We should shed no tears except the tears of gratitude. We should rejoice that he lived so long. In Nature's course, his time had come. The four seasons were complete in him. The Spring could never come again. The measure of his years was full. When the day is done--when the work of a life is finished--when the gold of evening meets the dusk of night, beneath the silent stars the tired laborer should fall asleep. To outlive usefulness is a double death. "Let me not live after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits." When the old oak is visited in vain by Spring--when light and rain no longer thrill--it is not well to stand leafless, desolate, and alone. It is better far to fall where Nature softly covers all with woven moss and creeping vine. How little, after all, we know of what is ill or well! How little of this wondrous stream of cataracts and pools--this stream of life, that rises in a world unknown, and flows to that mysterious sea whose shore the foot of one who comes has never pressed! How little of this life we know--this struggling ray of light 'twixt gloom and gloom--this strip of land by verdure clad, between the unknown wastes--this throbbing moment filled with love and pain--this dream that lies between the shadowy shores of sleep and death! We stand upon this verge of crumbling time. We love, we hope, we disappear. Again we mingle with the dust, and the "knot intrinsicate" forever falls apart. But this we know: A noble life enriches all the world. Horace Seaver lived for others. He accepted toil and hope deferred. Poverty was his portion. Like Socrates, he did not seek to adorn his body, but rather his soul with the jewels of charity, modesty, courage, and above all, with a love of liberty. Farewell, O brave and modest man! Your lips, between which truths burst into blossom, are forever closed. Your loving heart has ceased to beat. Your busy brain is still, and from your hand has dropped the sacred torch. Your noble, self-denying life has honored us, and we will honor you. You were my friend, and I was yours. Above your silent clay I pay this tribute to your worth. Farewell! A TRIBUTE TO LAWRENCE BARRETT. At the Broadway Theatre, New York, March 22, 1891. MY heart tells me that on the threshold of my address it will be appropriate for me to say a few words about the great actor who has just fallen into that sleep that we call death. Lawrence Barrett was my friend, and I was his. He was an interpreter of Shakespeare, to whose creations he gave flesh and blood. He began at the foundation of his profession, and rose until he stood next to his friend--next to one who is regarded as the greatest tragedian of our time--next to Edwin Booth. The life of Lawrence Barrett was a success, because he honored himself and added glory to the stage.