The departure of such a spirit would be fittingly commemorated by the
grand marches of Chopin and Beethoven, or the majestic requiems of
Mozart, rather than by our simple words. And yet they are our hearts'
testimony to her in whose name we are assembled and, let us hope, made
worthy. To us who believe that life reels not back from the white
charger of Death towards the gulf of inanity and oblivion, there is a
vivid realization that our words may be spoken to the conscious
spirit; and we desire that, in the sacred name of truth, and with the
love that comprehends and overcomes, we may speak simply as "soul to
soul."

One of the most beautiful lessons I have learned of death is that
after the departure of a friend, or even of an acquaintance, our
memories retain and cherish their best and noblest qualities and
deeds. We repeat their finest words and recount their generous works.
The sunshine falls clear on their virtues, and the shadow lies kindly
on their faults. It exalts our nature that our minds elect only the
lovely and beautiful characteristics of the lost friend. This sublime
power in us breaks the force of the bitter criticism of the obituary,
the eulogy, and the epitaph--that they are false notes in a hymn of
praise. And to us yet living, there is sweet comfort in the thought
that our best and higher selves shall remain with those we love and
honor. And so shall the good we do live after us. These purified
remembrances are links of the chain that binds the humblest to the
highest.

In my early womanhood I knew our honored president, a fair, happy,
healthy, active English woman; and she appeared to me (sobered by the
loss of most of my family) to rejoice in a fulness of life. We were
maidens, and her interests and activities were in domestic and social