Elizabeth Taylor Mahana 1849-1899
MAHANA, TAYLOR, ROBINSON
Posted By: Gloria J. Henry (email)
Date: 10/4/2002 at 15:54:48
ELIZABETH TAYLOR MAHANA
IN MEMORIAM
By Adelaide Taylor Fullerton (sister)
As the glory of the bright June morning illuminated the eastern sky, the spirit of Elizabeth Taylor Mahana passed from it frail tenement into the great unknown.
Death came so gently that as we gazed upon her quiet rest we cannot help but feel "That God's fingers touched her and she slept."
We land in youth, at the gate way of dreamland, and question the mystery of death, but afterwards, when maturity is reached, the interrogation changes--we knock at the portal of silence and would fain comprehend the mystery of life.
The soul of man repudiates the doctrine "that death ends all." It cries out to tree and peak and rock, for testimony of life, life, eternal life.
And nature, while not audible in speech, soothes us like tired children with an evening lullaby; and the "still small voice" repeats the words of the poet:"Dust thou are to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul."
And so to us it seems that the spirit of our loved one has only burst its prison cell and like an exquisite butterfly has floated away on the air.
Would you say of the garment or the outer husk it has flung aside, It is dead? Nay, rather say it has come to the fullness of its being. It has liberated that which it held, that brighter being it was fettering its further growth.
Materialism would consign man to oblivion but our own souls urge insistently and eternity of conscious existence, and whispers to us the secret of the riddle of life, "that there is no death" and so when we read Voltaire are others since his time, we reflect upon the impenetrable mystery and say our last good night to her--good night it was--and pleasant dreams for when she awoke it was "God who said good morning" as He touched her tired eyelids and gave her perfect sleep and she only lost the dreams that troubled her before.
And so the life thus closed is not meaningless or but the breaking of a wave to the text she marked herself in her bible the same as that of an only beloved brother Victor Mills Taylor of Chicago, who crossed over a few years ago in the prime if manhood. "Let not your heart be troubled," and as we approach the grave let it be like the old man of Thanatopsis "who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." For this gives us the fortitude of a Socrates as he drinks the hemlock and is historically sublime so she contemplated her transition with equal heroism "neither was she afraid" when she reached the bend in the road and disappeared.
It is fitting at this time to give a few facts of her family history. Elizabeth Taylor Mahana was born December 15, 1849 in Cook County, Illinois; her parents having moved there from New York. She was the daughter of the late Lester G. and Phelena Robinson Taylor. She was married to Bradley Brown Mahana at Iowa City, (Iowa), November 15, 1871. Three children were born to them. One son, Bradley F. Mahana, and two daughters, Myrtle and Percy Mahana. A mother and five sisters survive her and were present at the parting; they are Mrs. George S. Miller of Chicago; Mrs. Richard Mahana of Omaha; Mrs. Edwin G. Erwin of Kansas City; Mrs. L. K. Fullerton of Waterloo; Miss Floy Taylor of Kansas City.
It is not often, as has been said by those who knew the family intimately, that so much history is blended in the blood of one family. Mrs. Mahana's great-great grandmother was a Puritan woman of Connecticut; in the days of the revolution, she gave to the continental army her husband and sons, who for six long years fought in the ranks without furlough or revisit home. The grandsons were in the War of 1812, and fought in Mexico. Her uncles were in the civil war between the states. Her father was of English and French ancestry and had a coat of arms conferred on him which was dated from the sixteenth century. This was from the Herald College of England. But being a true American, she cared little for this honor and rarely spoke of it or of her family tree. She cared little for society. As she said a few weeks ago, it resembled a "bal masque," where the people always wore their masks. Her home was her haven; it was all-sufficient for her.
A large number of friends attended the services. Revs. St. John and Comin of the Congregational Church, of which she had been a member since early girlhood, officiated, the latter offering the prayer, which was full of comfort to his hearers. Singing by Miss Wilkenson and others was sweet and touching. The text, mentioned above, fourteenth chapter if St. John, was read. Then followed the remarks, which were very impressive. He spoke of life, and the drawing of the picture from the cradle to the grave was very beautiful. That the soul of man was like a bird which enters a lighted room and escapes "whence we know not." He pictured her life as he knew her, as her friends and neighbors knew her, of the beauty of her home--that she was dually endowed. She was gentle, but decided; inflexible, yet reasonable. She was dignity, yet meekness. Her affection was as warn and tender as the June day on which she passed away. If, as a divine has recently said, "good life is the greatest preparation we can have," hers was certainly prepared in time, for her whole life was devoted to others.
To him who in husband and father the blow is doubly hard. Of the love and tenderness she always manifested, he alone can tell how sweet to him is the memory of it all. It is all that is left to him in his utter loneliness.
A devoted, loving mother, who never failed in her duty to her children, who always, with a word or look, smoothed away a sorrow. A generous neighbor and more the faithful friend of the poor. This is enough. The greatest life contains no more. Her cup is full. "She lived, she loved, she was loved, and love is the only thing in all the world," said one of our philosophers, and it is true. With these the noblest impulses of the human race builds a monument of glory above the humblest grave.
There were a number of floral offerings from relatives and friends, which were beautiful and suggestive of the love and esteem that was entertained for her. The casket rested near the window, which presented a bower of beauty, as it was covered with the flowers she loved so well. A large harp with a broken string, from the neighbors, and a broken circle, from the sisters, was beautiful of roses and small ferns, and many others whose creamy petals were no less fair and pure than the silent sleeper.
Over the deep anguish of husband and children we draw the veil of sacred silencer; the mist is too deep to penetrate. But if they can only feel how the cloud that separates the dead from those who live a little longer--how empty is the grave which we garnish with flowers and water with our tears and look into the great beyond--where she awaits for the coming of their feet.
"We can but say, we will but say,
With a smile on her lips and wave of the hand,
She has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be since she lingers there.
Think of her faring on as dear
In the love of there as the love of here."
Mahannah Family Ties
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