Western sentinel. [volume] (Winston [i.e. Winston-Salem], N.C.) 1856-1886, 1882-03-30
NO...l5
Whence and Whittier? !?
RoBERT INGEIsoLLs ADDRESS AT TILE
GRAVE OF \ LITTLE CHILD.
| .---s~ EttsI.t.Sg HFf-s I'D faaflgF.,

/ GRAVE OF ) LITTLE CHILD,
~--@ Si3sHlS.f e--1 tH bl9luTi1
Washington Post, January stdsf,r90s
In y remote corner Of the Con-
gressional Cemetery yesterday at
ternoon small group. of people,
with uncovered heads, = ranged
around newly opened grave.
They inclndcd Detective and Mrs.
Geo. O. Miller an! family au,i
/ friends, who had gathered to wit
mess the burial Of Mr.. Millel's
i bright little son Harry, a reccn,
victim of dipltheria. As the cas-
ket reatee urqn the lrestles there
was painful pause, broken only
by the mothers sobs. Colonel R,,
bert G. Inecrsoll friend of the
Millers, attended the funeral at
thei" request. lie shook his head
when the undertaken first addressed
him, and then said suddenly
docs Mr.. Miller desire III" The
undertaken gave an affirmative nod,
MIR. Miller looked appealngly to.
ward the noted orator, and then
haatliy, Colonel Lngersoll advanced
to the side of the grave, made a
motion denoting a desire for ssi-
ence, andln voice of exquisite
cadence, delivered one of his char
acterist;c culogiss tor tie dead. A
fine drizzling raia was falling, and
Colonel lngersoll was unprotected
| by either hat or umbrella. He
said:
MY Friends: l know how vain
it is to gil1 grief with words, aud
Xet | wish to take from every grave
its fsa,. Here in tl;;s world, where
life and death are equa, 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 heart
less past. From the wondrous tree
OF LIE the buds aud blossoms fall
with ripened irnit, and in the COM
mon bed of earth the patriarchs
and babes sleep side bv side. Whv
should we fear that which will
come to all that is !? We cannot
tell, we do Hnt know, which Is the
greater bless:ne-iite or dea,k.
We cannot say that death is not g.
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 rot somewhere
else dawn. Neither can we tell
/ winch ls the more tortunate-tho
ch'ld diving il its mothers arms,
before its lips have learned to form
a WORD, or lie who journeys all she
!aagth of life's uneven road, pais-
fully takin" the las: slow steps with
staff and crntch.
Every cradle asks us whence 2
and every coffin, WHITTIER 20 Tho
POOR barbarian, weeping above his
deaG, can answer these questions as
intclligently and satisfactorily as
the robed priest of the most auihen-
tic creed. The fearful Ignorance
OF the one is lust as cnnsoling as
the learned and nnlneaning words
OF the other. No man, standin.
where the horizon of lie has
touched a grave has any right To
prophesy a future filled with pain
and tears. 1t may be that death
gives all there is Of worth to life.
It those we press and strain against
our hearts could never die, perhaps
that love would wither from tho
eartk. Maybe this common late
treads from ont the l,aths between
our hearts tho weeds of selfshncss
and hate. and | had rather live and
love where death is king than have
eternal life where love is not. An
other lite is nausht unless we know
and lovo AGAIN The Gnes who loYe
us here.
They who stand with braaking
hearts around this little grave need
have no fear. The larger and the
nobler faith in all that is and is 10
be tells us that death. even at its
worst, is cnls perfect rest. We
know that through the COMMON
wants of llfe-the nc Ids and duties
OF each hour-their grief will les
sen day by day, until at last this
grave will be to them a place of
rest and peace-aim st Of Joy.
There is for them this consolation
The dead do not suffer. If they
live again, their lives vii: surely
be as good as ours.
eve have no fear. We are ali
children of the same mother, and
tho same fate awaits us all. We,
too, have our religion. and it is
this: Help for the living Hope
for the dead"