The mother came, and kneeling before him took hold of his feet, which is the most supplicating manner of address in Africa; she looked in his face and said in a very plaintive voice—“My son, you have not spoken to your wives, but I know you will speak to your mother. You will say to her that you are not dead.”
The same silence ensued.
They all waited in vain for an answer for a few minutes; then the poor mother rolled herself on the ground at her son’s feet, shrieked and cried, and said—“Irende, why do you not speak to your mother?” The poor mother’s shrieks were so long, so piercing, and she uttered such a wail of grief, that the tears came into my eyes. The poor African mother had a heart!
As I left the hut, thinking how strangely the mind of man is constituted, the wailing continued, and was to be kept up until the burial of the corpse.
AN AFRICAN FUNERAL.
The day of the funeral came, and we went to the burial-ground. As the body left the village and was put into a canoe, the wailing was tremendous. The men that were to paddle were all painted, almost naked, and covered with fetiches. The drum beat as we descended the stream.
As we approached the burial-ground (for these Commi have a sort of cemetery) all became silent. Not a word was said; they prayed Ovengua not to get hold of them, and the corpse was left on the sand, a certain amount of which was thrown over it. His wombi was laid by his side, his gun and his spear were placed in his hand, and necklaces and ornaments were left with him. A cooked dish of plantain and a jar of water were placed beside him, so that he might drink and eat if he chose, then all was over and we came away.
What a strange burial-ground it was! It was situated on a prairie, with no trees in the neighborhood, and poles were the only signs that could show it to be a cemetery. Here and there a grim skeleton could be seen, and the remains of things that had accompanied the deceased men and women to the grave.
