CHAPTER XVIII. 



THE BURIAL 



" Soft was the couch she had made for her lover, 

 White, white were the sheets and embroidered the cover, 

 But whiter his sheets and his canopy grander, 

 And sounder he sleeps where the hill foxes wander." 



Campbell. 



In social life, the love of self and dread of others is not shaken 

 off even at the grave. We bury our dead man with pomp and 

 proper etiquette. There are invitations, and crape, hearse, monu- 

 ments, and seclusion from society ; even in our death we are 

 worldly, draping the dead truth and its morals with living fashions. 

 In the woods death is more direct in approach, and you less able 

 to shun his company. There is no art to help the stricken, no 

 luxury for the languid, no shrive for the dying. When the 

 destroyer has left his mark on your comrade and gone again, the 

 open eyes gaze at you, the stiff body is in your arms ; no one 

 speaks over it ; it preaches in mute language for itself ; there is 

 no hearse, no mourners, no newspaper article, no hymn ; you and 

 your friend are alone together. 



The night had well set in as we again caught sight of the low 

 outline of our camping-ground, after the hurried flight from the 

 river with our sorrowful burden. We lay off in the open water 

 until Mike had made an examination of the land to see that there 

 had been no one there after our departure, and when we saw his 

 fire-light signal we rowed to the beach and disembarked. The 

 negroes spoke in whispers, the boats were half unloaded, the guns 

 carefully examined, and lay ready for use ; the very hounds felt 

 the blow that had fallen, and crept listlessly to the fire, and laid 

 down wondering, all save poor old Duke. Duke was a sterling 

 dog, though somewhat aged ; his bed for years had been his master's 



