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 a dawn.
Neither can we tell which is the more fortunate, the child dying in its
mother's arms before its lips have learned to form a word, or he who
journeys all the length of life's uneven road, painfully taking the
last slow steps with staff and crutch. Every cradle asks us "Whence?"
and every coffin "Whither?" The poor barbarian weeping above his dead
can answer the question 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
other. No man standing where the horizon of a life has 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
and 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, and I should 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 largest 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: 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 the same fate awaits us all.
We, too, have our religion, and it is this: "Help for the living, hope
for the dead."

INGERSOLL AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE.--A Most Exquisite, Yet One Of The
Most Sad And Mournful Sermons

The funeral of Hon. Ebon C. Ingersoll, brother of Col. Robert G.
Ingersoll, of Illinois, took place at his residence in Washington,
D.C., June 2, 1879. The ceremonies were extremely simple, consisting
merely of viewing the remains by relatives and friends, and a funeral
oration by Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, brothe