XIV
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honored head: No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer, Nor that pure faith that gave it force, are there: But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man, contented to be poor.
CRABBE.
We have already said that the customs of America leave the dead but a short time in sight of the mourners; and the necessity of providing for his own safety had compelled the peddler to abridge even this brief space. In the confusion and agitation produced by the events we have recorded, the death of the elder Birch had occurred unnoticed; but a sufficient number of the immediate neighbors were hastily collected, and the ordinary rites of sepulture were now about to be paid to the deceased. It was the appro
