The Black range. (Robinson, Socorro County, N.M.) 1882-1897, 1883-06-01
lngersoll on Death.

]
lowing Oration recently at the funeral
OF John G. Millston, Washington City:
1--WE are again face to face with the
great mystery that shrouds this world.
We question, but there is no reply,
Out on the WIDE waste seas there drifts
no spar. Over the desert of death the
sphinx gazes forever, but never speaks.
In the very May of life another heart
has ceased to beat. Night has fallen
upon noon; but he lived, he loved, he
was loved. Wife and children pressed
their kisses on his lips. This is enough
This fills the vase of Joy. lie who
died here clothed with the perfect
peace of death was kind husband and
good father, generous neighbor and
honest man, and those words build a
monument of glory about the humblest
grave. He was always child, sincere
and frank, as full of hope as spring.
He divided all time in to-day and to-
morrow. Tomorrow was without a
cloud, and of to morrow he borrowed
sunshine for to-day. He was my
friend. He will remain so. The liv-
ing often become estranged. The dead
are true. He was not Christian. In
the Eden of his hove there did not
crawl and coil the serpent of enternal
pain. In many languages he sought
the thoughts of men, and for himself
he solved the problems of the world
He accepted the philosophy of August
Compte. Humanity was his god, the
human race the supreme being. In
that supreme being he rested. He be-
lieved that men are indebted for what
we enjoy to the labor, the self denial,
the heroism of the human race, as we
have plucked the fruit of what Others
planted, we in thankfulness, should
plant for others yet to be. With him
immortality was the eternal consequent
ces of his own good acts. He believed
that every good thought. every disin-
terested deed, hastens the harvest of
universal good. This is a religion that
enriches poverty, that enables us to
bear the sorrows of the saddest life,
that peoples even solitude with the
happy millions yet to be; religion
born not of selfshness and fear, but of
love and hope; The religion that digs
wells to slack the thirst of others; that
gladly bears the burdens of the unborn.
In the presence of this belief all dog
mas wither and decay. His loving
words and deeds burst into blossom.
Pluck from the trees of any life those
flowers and there remains but the bar
rem thorns of blgotrY and creed. All
wish for happiness beyond this life.
All hope to meet again the loved and
lost. In every heart there grows this
sacred flower of eternal hope. I'M
mortality is word that hope through
all the ages has been whispering to
love- The miracle of thought we can
not understand. The mystery of death
and comprehended. This chaos called
the world hasanever been explained.
The golden bridge of life from gloom
emerges and on shadows rest. Beyond
this we do not know. Fate is speech
less, destiny is dumb, and the secret of
the future has never yet been told.
We love, we wait, we hope. The more
we love the more we fear. Upon the
tenderest heart the deepest shadows
fall. All paths, whether filed with
thorns or flowers, end here. Here sue
cess and failure are the same. The rag
of wretchedness and the purple robe of
power lose difference and distinction
in this democracy of death. Character
alone survives. Goodness alone lives.
Love alone is immortal.
But to all there comes time when
the fevered lips of life long for the
cool, delicious kiss of death. Tired
of the dust and glare of day, they hear
with joy the rustling garments of the
night. What can we say of death
What can we say of the dead? Where
they have gone reason cannot go, and
from thence revelation has not come
But let US believe that over the cradle
nature bends and smiles and lovingly
above the dead IN benediction holds
her Outstretched hands"