He was the master of music, from the rhythmical strains of irresponsible joy to the sob of the funeral march. He stood like a king with his sceptre in his hand, and we knew that every tone and harmony were in his brain, every passion in his breast, and yet his sculptured face was as calm, as serene as perfect art. He mingled his soul with the music and gave his heart to the enchanted air. He appeared to have no limitations, no walls, no chains. He seemed to follow the pathway of desire, and the marvelous melodies, the sublime harmonies, were as free as eagles above the clouds with outstretched wings. He educated, refined, and gave unspeakable joy to many thousands of his fellow-men. He added to the grace and glory of life. He spoke a language deeper, more poetic than words--the language of the perfect, the language of love and death. But he is voiceless now; a fountain of harmony has ceased. Its inspired strains have died away in night, and all its murmuring melodies are strangely still. We will mourn for him, we will honor him, not in words, but in the language that he used. Anton Seidl is dead. Play the great funeral march. Envelop him in music. Let its wailing waves cover him. Let its wild and mournful winds sigh and moan above him. Give his face to its kisses and its tears. Play the great funeral march, music as profound as death. That will express our sorrow--that will voice our love, our hope, and that will tell of the life, the triumph, the genius, the death of Anton Seidl. A TRIBUTE TO DR. THOMAS SETON ROBERTSON. New York September 8, 1898. IN the pulseless hush of death, silence seems more expressive, more appropriate--than speech. In the presence of the Great Mystery, the great mystery that waits to enshroud us all, we feel the uselessness of words. But where a fellow-mortal has reached his journey's end--where the darkness from which he emerged has received him again, it is but natural for his friends to mingle with their grief, expressions of their love and loss. He who lies before us in the sleep of death was generous to his fellow-men. His hands were always stretched to help, to save. He pitied the friendless, the unfortunate, the hopeless--proud of his skill--of his success. He was quick to decide--to act--prompt, tireless, forgetful of self. He lengthened life and conquered pain--hundreds are well and happy now because he lived. This is enough. This puts a star above the gloom of death.