Rensselaer Republican, Volume 14, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 February 1882 — Perhaps Not the End. [ARTICLE]

Perhaps Not the End.

Washington special Chicago Times. In a remote corner of the Congressional cemetery, this afternoon a small group of people, with uncovered heads, were ranged around a newly opened grave. They included detective and Mrs. George Miller and family and Mends, who had gathered to witness the burial of the former’s bright little sou Harry, a recent victim of diphtheria. As tbe casket rested upon the trestles there was a painful pause, broken only by the mother’s sobs, until the the undertaker advanced toward a stout, florid-complexioned gentleman iu the party and whispered to him, the words being audible to the lookers cm. This gentlemau was Colouel Ingersoll, a friend of the Millers, who had attended the funeral at their request. He shook his head wheu the undertaker first addressed him, and then said suddenly: “Does Mrs. Miller desire it?” The undet taker gave an affirming nod. Mr. Millet looked appealingly toward the distinguished orator aud then Colouel Ingersoll advanced to the s de of the grave, made a motion denoting a desire for silence, aud iu a voice of exquisite cadence, delivered oue of his characteristic eulogies for the dead. The scope wtur Intensely dramatic. A K, ~c di izzliug rain was falling aud every head was bent aud every ear turned to catcli the impassioned words of eloquence aud hope that fell from the lips of the famed orator. Col. Ingersoll was unprotected by eithe°r hat or umbrella. and his invocation thrilled his hearers with awe, each eye that had previously been bedimmed with tears brightening, aud sobs becoming hushed. The colonel said: My Friends: I know how vain it is to gild a grief with words, and yet I wish to take from every grave its fear. Here is this world, where life and death are equal kiugs, all should be brave enough to meet what all the dead have met. The future has been filled with fear, strained and polluted by tbe heartless past. From the wouderous tree of life the buds and blossoms fall with ripened iruit. and in the common bed of earth partriarchs and babes sleep side by side. Why should we fear that which will come to ail that is? We .cannot tell. We do not know which is the greatest blessing, life or death. We cannot say that life is not & good. We do not know whether the grave is the end of this life or the door of another, or whether the night here Is not somewhere else a dawn. Neither can we tell w Inch is the more fortunate—the child-dying in iu its mother’s arms, btfere its lips have learned to form a word, or he who journeys all the length o life’s uneven road, painfully taking the last slow steps with staff and crutch. Every cradle asks us “whence?” and every coffin “whither?” Tbe poor barbarian weeping above his dead can answer these questions as intelligently and satisfactorily as the robed priest of the most authentic creed. The tearful ignorance of the one is just as consoling as the learned and unmeaning words of the oth*-r. No man standing wlie re the horizon of a liiehas touched a grave has any right to prophesy a future filled with pain and tears. It may be that death gives all there is of worth to life. If those who press aud strain against our hearts could never die, perhaps that love would wither from the earth. Maybe a common faith treads from out the paths between our hearts the weeds of selfishness aud hate and I should rather live and love where death is king than have eternal life where love is not. Another life is j n tught unless we kuow and love again I the ones who love bs here. They who stand wifii breaking hearts around this little grave need have no fear. The large and the noble faith iu all that is, and is to be, tells us that death even at its worst is only perfect rest. We know that- through the common wants of life—the needs and duties of each hour—their grief will lessen day by day, until at last this grave will he to them a place of rest and peace—almost of jjy. There is for them this cousolatiou: The dead do not suffer. .If they live | again; their lives will be surely as good | as ours. j We have no fear; we are children of I tiie same mother, and the same fate j awaits us all. We too have our religion and it is this: Help tor the living, I hope for the dead. — . .