Morning journal and courier., 1882-01-12
Is Death Dreadful ?
Funeral Address by Robert G. IngersoII.
 TFrom the KashinRton Post

l Funeral Addre by Robert G. IngerSoII. 1 From the Washington Pest. In remote corner of the Congressional l Cemetery yesterday afternoon, a small group i of people with uncovered heads ranged | around newly opened grave. They includ- | ed Detective and Mrs. George O. Miller and
 family, and friends, who had gathered to
 witness the burial of the formers bright lit | tie son Harry. As the casket rested upon ! the trestles, there was a painful pause, bro ken only by the mothers sobs, until the un-
 dertaker advanced toward stout, horid- complexioned gentleman in the party and i whispered to him. This gentleman was Col Robert G. Ingersou, friend of the Millers, who attended the funeral at their request He shook his head when the undertaken first addressed him, and then said suddenly Docs Mir. Miller desire 1t ?" The andertak- CT gave an affirmative nod, Mir Miller looked appealingly toward the noted orator, and then hastily Col IngersoH advanced to the side of the grave, made motion denoting desire for silence, and in voice of exquisite cadence delivered one of his characteristic eulogies for the dead The scene was in- tensely dramatic. 4 fine drizzGng rain was falling. and every head was bent and every ear turned to catch the impassioned words that fell from the lips of the speaker Col IngersoIl was unprotected by either hat or umbrella, and his invocation thrilled his hearers with awe, each eye that had previ- ously been bedimmed with tears brightening, and sobs becoming hushed. Col. Ingerson said
 My friends-I know how vain it is to gid grief with words and yet I wish to take from every grave its fear. Here in this world, where life and death are equal kings, all should be brave enough to meet what all the dead have met. The future has been filled with fear, stained and polluted by the heartless past. From the wondrous tree of life the buds and blossoms fall with ripened fruit, and in the common bed of earth the patriarchs and babes sleep side by side.
 Why should we fear that which will come to all that is? We cannot tell, we do not know, which is the greater tlessing-life or death. We cannot say that death is not a 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 which Is tine more fortunate-the child dying in it's mothers arms before it's lips have learned to form 8 word, or he who journeys all the length of ife's uneven road, painfully taking the last slow steps with staff and erutch
 Every cradle asks us ''Whence ?" and every coffin '' Whither ?' The poor barbarian, weeping above his dead, can answer these questions as intelligeDtly and satisfactorily as the robed priest of the most authentic creed. The fearful ignorance of the one is just as consoling as the learned and unmeaning
 
 the horizon of a life has touched grave, has any right to prophecy a future filled with pain and tears. It may be that death gives all there is of worth to life. If those we press and strain against our hearts could never die, perhaps that love would wither from the earth. May be this common fate treads from out the paths between our hearts the weeds of selhshness and hate, and had rather live and love where death is king than have eternal life where love is not Another life is naught unless we know and love again the ones who love us here.
 They who stand with breaking hearts around this little grave need have no fear The larger and the nobler faith in all that is and is to be tells us that death, even at it's worst, is only perfect rest. We know that through the common wants of hfe-the needs and duties of each heur-their grief will less en day by day, until at last this grave will be to them place of rest and peace-almost of joy. There is for them this consolation: The dead do not suffer. If they live again, their lives will surely be as good as ours We have no fear. We are all children of the same mother and tho same fate awaits us all We, too, have our religion, and it is this Help for the iving-Hope for the dead
 At the conclusion of Colonel Ingersoll's re- marks. the little coffin, covered with beauti- ful and fragrant flowers was lowered into it's resting place.