The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1882-02-02
A TOUCHING TRIBUTE.

| LII remote COIH0r OI the COuRIeSSlOH-
al Cemetery, yesterday afternoon, q
small group of people with uncovered
heads were ranged around nswly-open-
| ed grave. They included Detective and
Mrs. George 0. Miller and family and
| friends, who had gathered to witness the
burial of the formers bright little son,
Harry, recent victim OF dyptheria. As
| the casket rested upon the trestles there
was painful pause, broken only by the
mothers sobs, until the undertaken ad-
vanced toward stout, ford complex
| ioned gentleman in the party and whis
pered to him, the words being insudible
TO tue lockers on. This gentleman was
| Col. Robert G.. Ingersoll, friend of
al at their request. He shook his head
when the undertaken first addressed him,
and then said suddenly. "Does Mrs.
Miller desire it2'
The undertaken gave an affirmative
nod. Mr.. Miller looked appealingly to-
ward the distinguished orator, and then
Col. Ingersoll advanced to the side of
the grave, made motion denoting a
desire for silence, and in voice of ex-
quisitive cadence, delivered one of his
characteristic eulogies for the dead. The
scene was intensely dramatic. A fine
drizzling rain was falling, and every
ear turned to catch tue impassioned
words of eloquence and hope that fell
from the lips of the famed orator.
Col. Ingersoll was unprotected by eth
er hat or umbrella, and his invocation
thrilled his hearers with awe, each eye
that had previously been bedimmed with
tears, frightening, and sobs becoming
hushed. The Col. 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 have met. The future
has been filed with fear, stained and
polluted by the heartless past. From
the wondrous tree of life the buds and
blossoms fail with ripened fruit, and in
the common bed of earth, patriarchs
and babies 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 greatest blessing, life
or death. We cannot say that death 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 dawn Nei-
ther can we tell which is the more fortu-
nate, the child dying in its mothers
arms before It's lips have learned to form
O. VOID, or ne who journeys all the length
of hfes uneaven road, painfully taking
the last slow steps with staff and crutch.
Every cradle asks us 'whencel" and
every coffin "whither?" The poor bar
barian weeping above his dead can ans
wer the question as intelligently and
satisfactory as the robed priest of the
most authentic creed. The fearful ig-
norance of the one is just as consoling
as the learned and unmeaning words of
the other. No man standing where the
horizon of life has touched grave has
any right to prophesy future filled
vUith .Noir, ond fnprS hn fhaf
death gives all there is of worth to life.
Ii those who press and strain against our
hearts could never die, perhaps that love
would wither from the earth. Maybe a
common faith threads from out the paths
between our hearts the weeds of selfish
ness, and I should rather liYe 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
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
these graves will be to them a place of
rest and peace, almost OF Joy. There is
for them this consolation: tho 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 the same fate awaits US all.
We, too, have our religion, and it is this: /:
'Help for the Lying, hope for the dead. ;"