A TRIBUTE TO MRS. IDA WHITING KNOWLES.
New York, Dec, 16, 1887.
MY FRIENDS: Again we stand in the shadow of the great mystery—a shadow as deep and dark as when the tears of the first mother fell upon the pallid face of her lifeless babe—a mystery that has never yet been solved.
We have met in the presence of the sacred dead, to speak a word of praise, of hope, of consolation.
Another life of love is now a blessed memory—a lingering strain of music.
The loving daughter, the pure and consecrated wife, the sincere friend, who with tender faithfulness discharged the duties of a life, has reached her journey's end.
A braver, a more serene, a more chivalric spirit—clasping the loved and by them clasped—never passed from life to enrich the realm of death. No field of war ever witnessed greater fortitude, more perfect, smiling courage, than this poor, weak and helpless woman displayed upon the bed of pain and death.
Her life was gentle and her death sublime. She loved the good and all the good loved her.