place temple, and all seasons summer.' He believed that happiness
was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worshiper,
humanity the only religion, and love the priest. He added to the sum
of human joy, and were everyone for whom he did some loving service
to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a
wilderness of flowers. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and
barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the
heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing
cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no
word, but the light of death. Hope sees a star, and listening love can
hear the rustic of a wing, he who sleeps here when dying, mistaking
the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his
latest breath, 'I am better now.' Let us believe, in spite of doubts
and dogmas, and tears and fears, that these dear words are true of all
the countless dead. And now, to you who have been chosen from among
the many men he loved to do the last sad office for the dead, we give
his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is,
no gentler, stronger, manlier man."


AT THE GRAVE OF A CHILD.

Colonel Ingersoll upon one occasion was one of a little party of
sympathizing friends who had gathered in a drizzling rain to assist
the sorrowing friends of a young boy--a bright and stainless flower,
cut off in the bloom of its beauty and virgin purity by the ruthless
north winds from the Plutonian shades--in the last sad office of
committing the poor clay to the bosom of its mother earth. Inspired
by that true sympathy of the great heart of a great man, Colonel
Ingersoll stepped to the side of the grave and spoke as follows: