AN UNCOMFORTABLE NIGHT. 33 



could not sleep. Bryant says in his Thanatopsis, that 

 it should be a great comfort to a man in death, to 

 know that he "lies down with kings and the powerful 

 of the earth." I don't know how it may affect one 

 " in death,'''' but I do know that in vigorous health, 

 it requires more than the mere reflection that the 

 "kings and the great ones of the earth" are snoozing 

 on their couches of down, to make one sleep sweetly 

 in the solemn woods without a friend near him. If I 

 felt inclined to doze, the snapping of the fire, or the 

 stealthy tread of a fox or hedgehog, would startle me 

 from my disturbed slumbers — and there stood the tall 

 trees in the fire light, their huge trunks fading away 

 in the gloom like the columns of some old cathedral 

 at twilight. Once, I could have sworn I saw a bear, 

 and was on the point of shooting, but finally concluded 

 to take a fire-brand in one hand and my rifle in the 

 other, and go towards it, when lo ! it turned out to be 

 a black stump. I let it sleep on, and went back to my 

 fire, determined to have a nap. It was all in vain, and 

 yet I had slept soundly in places where I felt at the 

 time there was infinitely more danger than here. I 

 had slept lashed to a bench when the storm was spring- 

 ing our masts, and the sea falling in thunder on the 



