“He was plucked from us in the
very springtime of his days, with the
pulses of thought strong vigorous and
clear. How enchantingly the rain
bow of promise must have appeared
to him, and with what endearment he
must have embraced the prophecies
of the future. It is inexpressibly sad
to witness the scissors of death sever
ing the thread that binds the human
soul to this earth. What hopes are
crushed, what anticipations are frost
ed: The ocean that separates this
world from the next no human eye
can penetrate.
“Oh, what is death but a rebirth in
to that larger life where we go on
forever! Who can measure the com
pass of our existence? We come here
without our consent, and depart with
out being consulted.”
To complete the pathos of the oc
casion it was only necessary that Mr.
Bclford should “find nothing better
or sweeter” in the way of poetry to
quote in honor of Mr. Haskell’s mem
ory than one of the efforts of Colonel
John A. Joyce, the convict member
of the whisky ring, and, finally, that
he should summon once more to the
bar of the House the inevitable Julius
Cicsar.
This sort of thing should stop in
Congress. It is an absolute loss of
valuable time. It is so honor to
the memory of worthy and respec
table members like Mr. Haskell. It
is no credit to the orators themselves.
It is largely humbug, for often the
most lachrymose funeral orators on
the floor are Congressmen who are
believed to be the most jovial of junk
eters when they go in Pullman cars to
carry the remains to the grave.
The Bile of an Epileptic.
Mudical Reporter.
