A DEATH SCENE. 



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lay on the ground, in a white cotton dress extending 

 from the neck to the feet. It was that of a young man, 

 not more than twenty-two, with the mustache just bud- 

 ding on his upper lip, tall, and but a month before so 

 strong that he could ''lift a ceroon of indigo." He 

 had left home to buy cattle, returned with a fever, 

 and in a week was dead. A bandage was tied under 

 his chin to hold up his jaw; his thin wrists were se- 

 cured across his breast ; and his taper fingers held a 

 small crucifix made of corn-husks stitched together. 

 On each side of his head was a lighted candle, and ants, 

 which burden the ground, were swarming over his face. 

 The widow did not notice me, but the mother and two 

 young sisters asked me if I had no remedies ; if I could 

 not cure him ; if I could have cured him if I had seen 

 him before. 



I left the bereaved family and withdrew. The 

 man who had asked me to enter met me at the door, 

 and gave me a seat among the friends. He inquired 

 about my country, where it was, and whether the cus- 

 toms were like theirs ; and very soon, but for the lam- 

 entations of the widow, many would have forgotten 

 that a few yards from them lay a dead friend. 



I remained with them an hour, and then returned to 

 my hut. The piazza was full of hogs ; the interior was 

 a perfect piggery, full of fleas and children ; and the 

 woman, with a cigar in her mouth, and the harshest 

 voice I ever heard, still brought in child after child, and 

 piled them up on the floor. My men were already 

 asleep outside ; and borrowing an undressed ox-hide, I 

 spread it on the floor at the end of the house ; upon 

 this I laid my pellon, and upon that I laid myself. The 

 night before I had slept under a moscheto netting ! Oh, 

 padre of San Jacinto, that a man of my rank and 



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