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their rite is over and the grave filled up, but as the mourners file away another group arrives; a handsome hearse, with glass sides, showing a coffin which in England would be that of a prince, followed by eight coaches, each drawn by a pair of handsome black horses, and accompanied by a dozen men in uniform, with eagles and furled banners.
“ Who is this dead man?”
I ask a Negro loafer.
“ Guess dat Mose Crump?”
“ And who is Mose Crump?”
“ Him labourer.”
“ A field labourer?”
“ Guess dat ar.”
The horses prance and tear through the rough ground, and with a vast amount of noise and show, the coffin is brought to the hole in which it is to be cast — not a vault, hardly a trench-and here with furled banner, outspread eagles, and crash of music, Mose Crump is laid down.
The family are all present-men and women, boys and girls.
The groans and sighs are loud, but the Negro minister contrives to drown the voices of everyone save an old woman, who, with yearning pathos, sobs and screams: “ I nebber see my son, I nebber see my son ”
1875.
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