A little after daylight I re-entered the house, and found Miss Bradly dozing in a large arm-chair, with one hand thrown upon the cover of the bed where lay young master's body. Dr. Mandy was outstretched upon the lounge in a profound sleep. The long candles had burnt very low in the sockets, and every now and then sent up that flicker, which has been so often likened to the struggles of expiring humanity. I extinguished them, and closed the shutters, to exclude the morning rays that would else have stolen in to mar the rest of those who needed sleep. Then returning to the yard, I culled a fresh bouquet and placed it upon the breast of the dead. Gently touching Miss Bradly, I roused her and begged that she would seek some more comfortable quarters, whilst I watched with the body. She did so, having first imprinted a kiss upon the brow of the heavenly sleeper.
When she withdrew, I took from my apron a bundle of freshly-gathered flowers, and set about weaving fairy chains and garlands, which I scattered in fantastic profusion over and around the body.
A beautiful custom is it to decorate the dead with fresh flowers! There is something in the delicate, fairy-like perfume, and in the magical shadings and formation of flowers, that make them appropriate offerings to the dead. Strange mystical things that they are, seemingly instinct with a new and inchoate life; breathing in their heavenly fragrance of a hidden blessing, telling a story which our dull ears of clay can never comprehend. Symbols of diviner being, expressions of quickening beauty, we understand ye not. We only feel that ye are God's richest blessing to us, therefore we offer ye to our loved and holy dead!
When the broad daylight began to beam in through the crevices of the shutters, and noise of busy life sounded from without, the family rose. Separately they entered the room, each turning down the spread, and gazing tearfully upon the ghastly face. Often and often they kissed the brow, cheek, and lips.
"How lovely he was in life," said Miss Jane.
"Indeed he was, and he is now an angel," replied Miss Tildy, with a fresh gush of emotion.
"My poor, poor boy," said Mr. Peterkin, as he sank down on the bed beside the body; "how proud I was of him. I allers knowed he'd be tuck 'way from me. He was too putty an' smart an' good fur this world. My heart wus so sot on him! yit sometimes he almost run me crazy. I don't think it was just in Providence to take my only boy. I could have better spared one of the gals. Oh, tain't right, no how it can be fixed."
And thus he rambled on, perfectly unconscious of the bold blasphemy which he was uttering with every breath he drew. To impugn the justice of his Maker's decrees was a common practice with him. He had so long rejoiced in power, and witnessed the uncomplaining vassalage of slaves, that he began to regard himself as the very highest constituted authority! This is but one of the corrupting influences of the slave-system.
That long, wearing day, with its weight of speechless grief, passed at last. The neighbors came and went. Each praised the beauty of the corpse, and inquired who had dressed it. At length the day closed, and was succeeded by a lovely twilight. Another night, with its star-fretted canopy, its queenly, slow-moving moon, its soft aromatic air and pearly dew. And another gray, hazy day-break, yet still, as before, I watched near the dead. But on the afternoon of this day, there came a long, black coffin, with its silver plate and mountings; its interior trimmings of white satin and border of lace, and within this they laid the form of young master! His pale, fair hands were crossed prayerfully upon his breast; and a fillet of fresh white buds bound his smooth brow, whilst a large bouquet lay on his breast, and the wreaths I had woven were thrown round him and over his feet. Then the lid was placed on and tightly screwed down. Then came the friends and neighbors, and a good man who read the Bible and preached a soothing and ennobling sermon. The friends gave one more look, another, a longer and more clinging kiss, then all was over. The slow procession followed after the vehicle that carried the coffin, the servants walking behind. Poor, uncared-for slaves, as we were, we paid a heart-felt tribute to his memory, and watered his new-made grave with as sincere tears as ever flowed from eyes that had looked on happier times.
I lingered until long after the last shovel-full of dirt was thrown upon him. Others, even his kindred, had left the spot ere I turned away. That little narrow grave was dearer and nearer to me, as there it lay so fresh and damp, shapen smoothly with the sexton's spade, than when, several weeks after, a patrician obelisk reared its Parian head towards the blue sky. I have always looked upon grave-monuments as stony barriers, shutting out the world from the form that slowly moulders below. When the wild moss and verdant sward alone cover the grave, 'tis easy for us to imagine death only a sleep; but the grave-stone, with its carvings and frescoes, seems a sort of prison, cold and grim in its aristocratic splendor. For the grave of those whom I love, I ask no other decoration than the redundant grass, the enamelled mosaic of wild flowers, a stream rolling by with its dirge-like chime, a weeping willow, and a moaning dove.