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The Astral Plane/Chapter III/III

III. ARTIFICIAL

This, the largest class of astral entities, is also much the most important to man. Being entirely his own creation, it is inter-related with him by the closest karmic bonds, and its action upon him is direct and incessant. It is an enormous inchoate mass of semi-intelligent entities, differing among themselves as human thoughts differ, and practically incapable of anything like classification or arrangement. The only division which can be usefully made is that which distinguishes between the artificial elementals made by the majority of mankind unconsciously, and those made by magicians with definite intent; while we may relegate to a third class the small number of artificially arranged entities which are not elementals at all.

Elementals formed unconsciously
1. Elementals formed unconsciously. I have explained that the elemental essence which surrounds us on every side is in all its numberless varieties singularly susceptible to the influence of human thought. The action of the mere casual wandering thought upon it, causing it to burst into a cloud of rapidly-moving, evanescent forms, has been described; we have now to note how it is affected when the human mind formulates a definite, purposeful thought or wish.

The effect produced is of the most striking nature. The thought seizes upon the plastic essence, and moulds it instantly into a living being of appropriate form — a being which when once thus created is in no way under the control of its creator, but lives out a life of its own, the length of which is proportionate to the intensity of the thought or wish which called it into existence. It lasts, in fact, just as long as the thought-force holds it together. Most people's thoughts are so fleeting and indecisive that the elementals created by them last only a few minutes or a few hours, but an often-repeated thought or an earnest wish will form an elemental whose existence may extend to many days.

Since the ordinary man's thoughts refer largely to himself, the elementals which they form remain hovering about him, and constantly tend to provoke a repetition of the idea which they represent, since such repetitions, instead of forming new elementals, strengthen that already in existence, and give it a fresh lease of life. A man, therefore, who frequently dwells upon one wish often forms for himself an astral attendant which, constantly fed by fresh thought, may haunt him for years, ever gaining more and more strength and influence over him; and it will easily be seen that if the desire be evil the effect upon his moral nature may be of a disastrous character.

Still more pregnant of result for good or evil are a man's thoughts about other people, for, in that case they hover not about the thinker, but about the object of the thought. A kindly thought about any person, or an earnest wish for his good, forms and projects towards him a friendly, artificial elemental. If the wish be definite, as, for example, that he may recover from some sickness, then the elemental will be a force ever hovering over him to promote his recovery, or to ward off any influence that might tend to hinder it. In doing this it will display, what appears like a very considerable amount of intelligence and adaptability, though really it is a force acting along the line of least resistance — pressing steadily in one direction all the time, and taking advantage of any channel that it can find, as the water in a cistern would in a moment find the one open pipe among a dozen closed, and proceed to empty itself through that.

If the wish be merely indefinite, for his general good, the elemental essence in its wonderful plasticity will respond exactly to that less distinct idea also, and the creature formed will expend its force in the direction of whatever action for the man's advantage comes most readily to hand. In all cases the amount of such force which it has to expend, and the length of time that it will live to expend it, depend entirely upon the strength of the original wish or thought which gave it birth; though it must be remembered that it can be, as it were, fed and strengthened, and its life-period protracted by other good wishes or friendly thoughts projected in the same direction.

Furthermore, it appears to be actuated, like most other beings, by an instinctive desire to prolong its life, and thus reacts on its creator as a force constantly tending to provoke the renewal of the feeling which called it into existence. It also influences in a similar manner others with whom it comes into contact, though its rapport with them is naturally not so perfect.

All that has been said as to the effect of good wishes and friendly thoughts is also true in the opposite direction of evil wishes and angry thoughts; and considering the amount of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness that exists in the world, it will be readily understood that among the artificial elementals many terrible creatures are to be seen. A man whose thoughts or desires are spiteful, brutal, sensual, avaricious, moves through the world carrying with him everywhere a pestiferous atmosphere of his own, peopled with the loathsome beings which he has created to be his companions. Thus he is not only in sadly evil case himself, but is a dangerous nuisance to his fellow¬men, subjecting all who have the misfortune to come into contact with him to the risk of moral contagion from the influence of the abominations with which he chooses to surround himself.

A feeling of envious or jealous hatred towards another person sends an evil elemental to hover over him and seek for a weak point through which it can operate; and if the feeling be persistent, such a creature may be continually nourished by it and thereby enabled to protract its undesirable activity for a long period. It can, however, produce no effect upon the person towards whom it is directed unless he has himself some tendency which it can foster — some fulcrum for its lever, as it were. From the aura of a man of pure thought and good life all such influences at once rebound, finding nothing upon which they can fasten, and in that case, by a curious law, they react in all their force upon their original creator. In him by the hypothesis they find a congenial sphere of action, and thus the karma of his evil wish works itself out at once by means of the very entity which he himself has called into existence.

It occasionally happens, however, that an artificial elemental of this description is for various reasons unable to expend its force either upon its object or its creator, and in such cases it becomes a kind of wandering demon. It is readily attracted by any person who indulges in feelings similar to that which gave it birth, and equally prepared either to stimulate such feelings in him for the sake of the strength it may gain from them, or to pour out its store of evil influence upon him through any opening which he may offer it. If it is sufficiently powerful to seize upon and inhabit some passing shell it frequently does so, as the possession of such a temporary home enables it to husband its dreadful resources more carefully. In this form it may manifest through a medium, and by masquerading as some well-known friend may sometimes obtain an influence over people upon whom it would otherwise have little hold.

What is written above will serve to enforce the statement already made as to the importance of maintaining a strict control over our thoughts. Many a well-meaning man, who is scrupulously careful to do his duty towards his neighbour in word and deed, is apt to consider that his thoughts at least are nobody's business but his own, and so lets them run riot in various directions, utterly unconscious of the swarms of baleful creatures which he is launching upon the world.

To such a man an accurate comprehension of the effect of thought and desire in producing artificial elementals would come as a horrifying revelation; on the other hand, it would be the greatest consolation to many devoted and grateful souls who are oppressed with the feeling that they are unable to do anything in return for the kindness lavished upon them by their benefactors. For friendly thoughts and earnest good wishes are as easily and as effectually formulated by the poorest as by the richest, and it is within the power of almost any man, if he will take the trouble, to maintain what is practically a good angel always at the side of the brother or sister, the friend or the child, whom he loves best, no matter in what part of the world he may be.

Many a time a mother's loving thoughts and prayers have formed themselves into an angel guardian for the child, and except in the almost impossible case that the child had in him no instinct responsive to a good influence, have undoubtedly given him assistance and protection. Such guardians may often be seen by clairvoyant vision, and there have even been cases in which one of them has had sufficient strength to materialize and become for the moment visible to physical sight.

A curious fact which deserves mention here is that even after the passage of the mother into the heaven-world the love which she pours out upon the children whom she imagines as surrounding her, will react upon those children though they are still living in this world, and will often support the guardian elemental which she created while on earth, until those children themselves pass away in turn. As Madame Blavatsky remarks, "her love will always be felt by the children in the flesh; it will manifest in their dreams and often in various events, in providential protections and escapes – for love is a strong shield, and is not limited by space or time" (Key to Theosophy, p.116). All the stories of the intervention of guardian Angels must not, however, be attributed to the action of artificial elementals, for in many cases such "angels" have been either living or recently departed human beings, and they have also occasionally, though rarely, been Devas. (See Invisible Helpers, p. 31). This power of an earnest desire, especially if frequently repeated, to create an active elemental which ever passes forcefully in the direction of its own fulfillment, is the scientific explanation of what devout but unphilosophical people describe as answers to prayer. There are occasions, though at present these are rare, when the karma of the person so praying is such as to permit of assistance being directly rendered to him by an Adept or his pupil, and there is also the still rarer possibility of the intervention of a Deva or some friendly nature-spirit; but in all these cases the easiest and most obvious form for such assistance to take would be the strengthening and the intelligent direction of the elemental already formed by the wish.

A curious and instructive instance of the extreme persistence of these artificial elementals under favourable circumstances came some time ago under the notice of one of our investigators. All readers of the literature of such subjects are aware that many of our ancient families are supposed to have associated with them a traditional death-warning — a phenomenon of one kind or another which foretells, usually some days beforehand, the approaching decease of the head of the house. A picturesque example of this is the well-known story of the white bird of the Oxenhams, whose appearance has ever since the time of Queen Elizabeth been recognised as a sure presage of the death of some member of the family; while another is the spectral coach which is reported to drive up to the door of a certain castle in the north when a similar calamity is impending.

A phenomenon of this order occurs in connection with the family of one of our members, but it is of a much commoner and less striking type than either of the above, consisting only of a solemn and impressive strain of dirge¬like music, which is heard apparently floating in the air three days before the death takes place. Our member, having himself twice heard this mystic sound, finding its warning in both cases quite accurate, and knowing also that according to family tradition the same thing had been happening for several centuries, set himself to seek by occult methods for the cause underlying so strange a phenomenon.

The result was unexpected but interesting. It appeared that somewhere in the twelfth century the head of the family went to the crusades, like many another valiant man, and took with him to win his spurs in the sacred cause his youngest and favourite son, a promising youth whose success in life was the dearest wish of his father's heart. Unhappily, however, the young man was killed in battle, and the father was plunged into the depths of despair, lamenting not only the loss of his son, but still more the fact that he was cut off so suddenly in the full flush of careless and not altogether blameless youth.

So poignant, indeed, were the old man's feelings that he cast off his knightly armour and joined one of the great monastic orders, vowing to devote all the remainder of his life to prayer, first for the soul of his son, and secondly that henceforward no descendant of his might ever again encounter what seemed to his simple and pious mind the terrible danger of meeting death unprepared. Day after day for many a year he poured all the energy of his soul into the channel of that one intense wish, firmly believing that somehow or other the result he so earnestly desired would be brought about.

A student of occultism will have little difficulty in deciding what would be the effect of such a definite and long-continued stream of thought; our knightly monk created an artificial elemental of immense power and resourcefulness for its own particular object, and accumulated within it a store of force which would enable it to carry out his wishes for an indefinite period. An elemental is a perfect storage-battery, from which there is practically no leakage; and when we remember what its original strength must have been, and how comparatively rarely it would be called upon to put it forth, we shall scarcely wonder that even now it exhibits unimpaired vitality, and still warns the direct descendants of the old crusader of their approaching doom by repeating in their ears the strange walling music which was the dirge of a young and valiant soldier eight hundred years ago in Palestine.

Elementals formed consciously
2. Elementals formed consciously. Since such results as have been described above have been achieved by the thought-force of men who were entirely in the dark as to what they were doing, it will readily be imagined that a magician who understands the subject, and can see exactly what effect he is producing, may wield immense power along these lines. As a matter of fact occultists of both the white and dark schools frequently use artificial elementals in their work, and few tasks are beyond the powers of such creatures when scientifically prepared and directed with knowledge and skill; for one who knows how to do so can maintain a connection with his elemental and guide it, no matter at what distance it may be working, so that it will practically act as though endowed with the full intelligence of its master.

Definite and efficient guardian Angels have sometimes been supplied in this way, though it is probably rarely that karma permits such a decided interference in a person's life as that would be. In such a case, however, as that of a pupil of the Adepts, who might have in the course of his work for Them to run the risk of attack from forces with which his unaided strength would be entirely insufficient to cope, guardians of this description have been given, and have fully proved their sleepless vigilance and their tremendous power.

By some of the more advanced processes of black magic, also, artificial elementals of great power may be called into existence, and much evil has been worked in various ways by such entities. But it is true of them, as of the previous class, that if they are aimed at a person whom by reason of his purity of character they are unable to influence, they react with terrible force upon their creator; so that the mediæval story of the magician being torn to pieces by the fiends he himself had raised is no mere fable, but may well have a definite foundation in fact. Indeed, a case illustrative of the action of this law occurred some time ago in the life of our late President. Such creatures occasionally, for various reasons, escape from the control of those who are trying to make use of them, and become wandering and aimless demons, as do some of those mentioned under the previous heading in similar circumstances; but those that we are considering, having much more intelligence and power, and a much longer existence, are proportionately more dangerous. They invariably seek for means of prolonging their lives, either by feeding like vampires upon the vitality of human beings, or by influencing them to make offerings to them; and among simple half-savage tribes they have frequently succeeded by judicious management in being recognized as village or family gods.

Any deity which demands sacrifices involving the shedding of blood may always be set down as belonging to the lowest and most loathsome class of this order; other less objectionable types are sometimes content with offerings of rice and cooked food of various kinds. There are parts of India where both these varieties may be found flourishing even at the present day, and in Africa they are probably comparatively numerous.

By means of whatever nourishment they can obtain from the offerings, and still more by the vitality they draw from their devotees, they may continue to prolong their existence for many years, or even centuries, retaining sufficient strength to perform occasional phenomena of a mild type in order to stimulate the faith and zeal of their followers, and invariably making themselves unpleasant in some way or other if the accustomed sacrifices are neglected. For example, it is asserted that in one Indian village the inhabitants have found that whenever for any reason the local deity is not provided with his or her regular meals, spontaneous fires began to break out with alarming frequency among the cottages, sometimes three or four simultaneously, in cases where they declare it is impossible to suspect human agency; and other stories of a more or less similar nature will no doubt recur to the memory of any reader who knows something of the out-of-the-way corners of that most wonderful of all countries.

The art of manufacturing artificial elementals of extreme virulence and power seems to have been one of the specialties of the magicians of Atlantis — "the lords of the dark face." One example of their capabilities in this line is given in The Secret Doctrine (vol. III, p. 425), where we read of the wonderful speaking animals who had to be quieted by an offering of blood, lest they should awaken their masters and warn them of the impending destruction. But apart from these strange beasts they created other artificial entities of power and energy so tremendous, that it is darkly hinted that some of them have kept themselves in existence even to this day, though it is more than eleven thousand years since the cataclysm which overwhelmed their original masters. The terrible Indian goddess whose devotees were impelled to commit in her name the awful crimes of Thuggee — the ghastly Kali, worshipped even to this day with rites too abominable to be described — might well be a relic of a system which had to be swept away even at the cost of the submergence of a continent, and the loss of sixty-five million human lives.

Human Artificials
3. Human Artificials. We have now to consider a class of entities which, though it contains but few individuals, has acquired from its intimate connection with one of the great movements of modern times an importance entirely out of proportion to its numbers. It seems doubtful whether it should appear under the first or third of our main divisions; but, though certainly human, it is so far removed from the course of ordinary evolution, so entirely the product of a will outside of its own, that it perhaps falls most naturally into place among the artificial beings.

The easiest way of describing it will be to commence with its history, and to do that we must once more look back to the great Atlantean race. In thinking of the Adepts and schools of occultism of that remarkable people our minds instinctively revert to the evil practices of which we hear so much in connection with their latter days; but we must not forget that before that age of selfishness and degradation, the mighty civilization of Atlantis had brought forth much that was noble and worthy of admiration, and that among its leaders were some who now stand upon the loftiest pinnacles as yet attained by man. Among the lodges for occult study preliminary to Initiation formed by the Adepts of the good Law was one in a certain part of America which was then tributary to one of the great Atlantean monarchs — "the Divine Rulers of the Golden Gate"; and though it has passed through many and strange vicissitudes, though it has had to move its headquarters from country to country as each in turn was invaded by the jarring elements of a later civilization, that Lodge still exists even at the present day, observing still the same old-world ritual — even teaching as a sacred and hidden language the same Atlantean tongue which was used at its foundation so many thousands of years ago.

It still remains what it was from the first — a Lodge of occultists of pure and philanthropic aims, which can lead those students whom it finds worthy no inconsiderable distance on the road to knowledge, and confers such psychic powers as are in its gift only after the most searching tests as to the fitness of the candidate. Its teachers do not stand upon the Adept level, yet hundreds have learnt through it how to set their feet upon the Path which has led them to Adeptship in later lives; and though it is not directly a part of the Brotherhood of the Himalayas, there are some among the latter who have Themselves been connected with it in former incarnations, and therefore retain a more than ordinarily friendly interest in its proceedings. Indeed. I well remember how the present Leader of that Lodge, on seeing the portrait of one of the Masters of Wisdom, at once prostrated himself before it in deepest reverence.

The Chiefs of this Lodge, though they have always kept themselves and their society strictly in the background, have nevertheless done what they could from time to time to assist the progress of truth in the world. Nearly a century ago, in despair at the rampant materialism which seemed to be stifling all spirituality in Europe and America, they determined to make an attempt to combat it by somewhat novel methods — in point of fact to offer opportunities by which any reasonable man could acquire absolute proof of that life apart from the physical body which it was the tendency of science to deny. The phenomena exhibited were not in themselves absolutely new, since in some form or other we may hear of them all through history; but their definite organization – their production as it were to order — these were features distinctly new to the modern world.

The movement which they thus set on foot gradually grew into the vast fabric of modern Spiritualism, and though it would perhaps be unfair to hold the originators of the scheme directly responsible for many of the results which have followed, we must admit that they have achieved their purpose to the extent of converting vast numbers of people from a belief in nothing in particular to a firm faith in at any rate some kind of future life. This is undoubtedly a magnificent result, though there are those who think that it has been attained at too great a cost.

The method adopted was to take some ordinary person after death, arouse him thoroughly upon the astral plane, instruct him to a certain extent in the powers and possibilities belonging to it, and then put him in charge of a Spiritualistic circle. He in his turn "developed" other departed personalities along the same line, they all acted upon those who sat at their séances, and "developed" them as mediums; and so spiritualism grew and flourished. No doubt living members of the original Lodge occasionally manifested themselves in astral form at some of the circles — perhaps they may do so even now; but in most cases they contented themselves with giving such direction and guidance as they considered necessary to the persons they had put in charge. There is little doubt that the movement increased so much more rapidly than they had expected that it soon got quite beyond their control, so that, as has been said, for many of the later developments they can only be held indirectly responsible.

The intensification of the astral-plane life in those persons who were thus put in charge of circles some-what delayed their natural progress; and though the idea had been that anything lost in this way would be fully compensated by the good karma gained by helping to lead others to the truth, it was soon found that it was impossible to make use of a "spirit-guide" for any length of time without doing him serious and permanent injury. In some cases such "guides" were therefore withdrawn, and others substituted for them; in others it was considered for various reasons undesirable make such a change, and then a remarkable expedient was adopted which gave rise to the curious class of creatures we have called "human artificials." The higher principles of the original "guide" were allowed to pass on their long-delayed evolution into the heaven-world, but the shade which he left behind him was occupied, sustained, and strengthened so that it might appear to its admiring circle practically just as before. This seems at first to have been done by members of the Lodge themselves, but apparently that arrangement was found irksome or unsuitable, or perhaps was considered a waste of force, and the same objection applied to the use for this purpose of an artificial elemental; so it was eventually decided that the departed person who would have been appointed to succeed the late "spirit-guide" should still do so, but should take possession of the latter's shade or shell, and in fact simply wear his appearance.

It is said that some members of the Lodge objected to this on the ground that though the purpose might be entirely good, a certain amount of deception was involved; but the general opinion seems to have been that as the shade really was the same, and contained something at any rate of the original lower mind, there was nothing that could be called deception in the matter. This, then, was the genesis of the human artificial entity, and it is understood that in some cases more than one such change has been made without arousing suspicion, though on the other hand some investigators of spiritualism have remarked on the fact that after a considerable lapse of time certain differences suddenly became observable in the manner and disposition of a "spirit". It is needless to say that none of the Adept Brotherhood has ever undertaken the formation of an artificial entity of this sort, though They could not interfere with any one who thought it right to take such a course. A weak point in the arrangement is that many others besides the original Lodge may adopt this plan, and there is nothing whatever to prevent black magicians from supplying communicating "spirits" — as, indeed, they have been known to do.

With this class we conclude our survey of the inhabitants of the astral plane. With the reservations specially made some few pages back, the catalogue may be taken as fairly complete; but it must once more be emphasized that this treatise claims only to sketch the merest outline of a very vast subject, the detailed elaboration of which would need a lifetime of study and hard work.

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 regular times, and then they clean to receive me, and have the pleasure of preparing for me, and seeing my satisfaction; then I go at unexpected times to raise them to the power of having it always clean.

Our plan of removing the inhabitants of the miserable underground kitchens to rooms in the upper parts of the houses, did not, strange as it may seem, meet with any approbation at first. They had been so long in the semi-darkness that they felt it an effort to move. One woman, in particular, I remember, pleaded hard with me to let her stop, saying, "My bits of things won't look anything if you bring them to the light." By degrees, however, we effected the change.

I mentioned in my summary of our plan of operations, our custom of using some of the necessary, yet not immediately wanted repairs, as a means of affording work to the tenants in slack times. I lay great stress upon this. Though the men are not mechanics, there are many rough jobs of plastering, distempering, glazing, or sweeping away and removing rubbish which they can do. When, therefore, a tenant is out of work, instead of reducing his energy by any gifts of money, we simply, whenever the funds at our disposal allow it, employ him in restoring and purifying the houses. And what a difference five shillings worth of work in a bad week will make to a family! The father, instead of idling listlessly at the corner of the street, sets busily and happily to work, prepares the whitewash, mends the plaster, distempers the room; the wife bethinks herself of having a turn-out of musty corners or drawers, untouched, maybe, for months, of cleaning her windows, perhaps even of putting up a clean blind; and thus a sense of decency, the hope of beginning afresh and doing better, comes like new life into the home.

The same cheering and encouraging sort of influence, though in a less degree, is exercised by our plan of having a little band of scrubbers. We have each passage scrubbed twice a week by one of the elder girls. The sixpence thus

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 earned is a stimulus, and they often take an extreme interest in the work itself. One little girl was so proud of her first cleaning that she stood two hours watching her passage lest the boys, whom she considered as the natural enemies of order and cleanliness, should spoil it before I came to see it. And one woman remarked to her neighbor how nice the stairs looked. "They haven't been cleaned," she added, "since ever I came into this house." She had been there six years! The effect of these clean passages frequently spreads to the rooms, as the dark line of demarkation between the cleaned passage and the still dirty room arouses the attention, and begins to trouble the minds, of its inmates.

Gradually, then, these various modes of dealing with our little realm began to tell. Gradually the people began to trust us; and gradually the houses were improved. The sense of quiet power and sympathy soon made itself felt, and less and less was there any sign of rudeness or violence towards ourselves. Even before the first winter was over many a one would hurry to light us up the stairs, and instead of my having the rent-book and money thrust to me through the half-open door, and being kept from possible entrance by a firmly planted foot, my reception would be, "Oh, can't you come in, Miss, and sit down for a bit?" Little by little the houses were renovated, the grates reset, the holes in the floors repaired, the cracking, dirty plaster replaced by a clean smooth surface, the heaps of rubbish removed, and we progressed towards order.

Amongst the many benefits which the possession of the houses enables us to confer on the people, perhaps one of the most important is our power of saving them from neighbors who would render their lives miserable. It is a most merciful thing to protect the poor from the pain of living in the next room to drunken, disorderly people. "I am dying," said an old woman to me the other day: "I wish you would put me where I can't hear S—— beating his wife. Her screams are awful. And B——, too, he do

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 come in so drunk. Let me go over the way to No. 30." Our success depends on duly arranging the inmates: not too many children in any one house, so as to overcrowd it; not too few, so as to overcrowd another; not two bad people side by side, or they drink together; not a terribly bad person beside a very respectable one.

Occasionally we come upon people whose lives are so good and sincere, it is only by such services and the sense of our friendship, that we can help them at all; in all important things they do not need our teaching, while we may learn much from them. In one of the underground kitchens, I found an old woman who had been living there for twelve years. In spite of every obstacle, and in the midst of such surroundings as I have described, she was spotlessly clean and had done the very best for the wretched place: the broken bars of the grate she had bound in their places with little bits of wire; the great rents in the wall, one of which went right through to the open air, she had stuffed with rags, the jagged ends of which she had actually taken the trouble to trim neatly with scissors; she had papered the walls, and as they were so damp that the paste was perpetually losing its hold, she patiently fastened up the long strips of paper fresh every week. With all this work for it she had naturally become so fond of her little home that it nearly broke her heart to think of leaving it. So we determined not to tear her away from it. After a time, however, the force of our former arguments told upon her, and suddenly, one day, she volunteered to move. She has kept her new room, as one would expect, in a state of neatness and order that is quite perfect. She has since been growing less and less able to work, but she has always paid her rent, she has never asked for help, nor would she even accept the small boon of my lending her some money until she could give the due notice which would enable her to draw out her own savings from the bank where she had placed them. She has lived thirty-five years in London, a single woman depending entirely on herself, without

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 parish allowance or other aid, and has had strength to keep up her standard of cleanliness and independence, and a spirit of patient trustfulness that is unfailing. Her life on earth is nearly over; she is now confined to her bed, for the most part quite alone, without even a bell to summon aid: yet there she lies in her snow-white bed as quietly as a little child settling itself to sleep, talking sometimes with a little pride of her long life's work, sometimes with tenderness of her old days in Ireland long ago, and saying gently that she does not wish to be better; she wants to go "home." Even in the extremity of her loneliness only a small mind could pity her. It is a life to watch with reverence and admiration.

We can rarely speak of the depths of the hearts we learn to know or the lives we see in the course of our work. The people are our friends. But sometimes, when such as this old woman seem to have passed beyond us all and to have entered into a quiet we cannot break, we may just glance at a life which, in its simplicity and faithfulness, might make the best of us ashamed.

Since we began our work in the court there has been a marked improvement in many of the people. I may just say, as examples, that the passionate Irish tenant who locked me into her room did not leave us, but has settled down happily, and has shown me more than one act of confidence and kindly feeling; that the old woman whose "bits o' things" would look nothing if brought upstairs, after having been long in a light room, has now asked for a larger one, having freed herself from a debt which cramped her resources, and has begun to save; and that the two dark-eyed children were ultimately won over to trust in us. Their mother—a most degraded woman—when she at last appeared, proved to be living a very disreputable life, and the only hope for the children was to get them away from her influence. My first triumph was in getting the girl to exert herself enough to become one of our scrubbers, and finally, a year ago, we were able to

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 persuade her to go to a little industrial school in the country, where she has since been joined by a sister of hers, who turned up subsequently to my first visits. Unfortunately the mother absconded, taking the boy with her, while we were still hoping to get him sent away to a training-school also; but, even in the short time that he remained with us, I had got some hold over him. By dint of making an agreement with him that I would myself fetch him at eight one morning, and help him to prepare his toilet so as to be fit for the nearest ragged school, I got him to begin learning; and when once the ice was broken, he went frequently of his own accord.

Opportunities for helping people at some important crisis of their lives not unfrequently present themselves. For instance, soon after we came into possession of Blank Court, I once or twice received rent from a young girl, whom I generally found sitting sadly in a nearly bare room, holding in her arms a little baby. She looked so young that I thought at first the baby must be her sister, but it turned out to be her own child. Her husband seemed a mere boy, and was, in fact, only nineteen. One day, when the rent was not forthcoming, I learnt their story. It appeared that an aunt had promised the lad a sovereign to set him up as a costermonger, if he married the girl; but he had not bargained for prepayment, and the promise was not fulfilled. This marriage-portion, which was to have procured them a stock of herrings, had never been forthcoming. This seemed an occasion upon which a small loan might be of the utmost use. I accordingly lent them the much-needed sovereign (which they have since punctually repaid), and thus saved the young couple from being driven to the workhouse, and gave them a small start in life.

To show further the various opportunities afforded us by our footing with the people, I will describe one of our weekly collections of savings.

On Saturday evenings, about eight o'clock, the tenants

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Rh its inconvenience when put into practice. To be guarded from the hardship of labour by the devoted father did not always put money into the daughter's pocket.

Had I been more at home in Philadelphia, my poverty might not have stood so much in my light. A hundred years before Gouverneur Morris had praised Philadelphia, which in its respect for "virtuous poverty" he thought so much more generous than other capitals where social splendour was indispensable, and in this the town had not changed. It was to Philadelphia's credit that a girl's social success did not depend on the length of her dressmaker's bill or the scale of her entertaining. More than one as poor as I would have a different story to tell. But I suffered from having had no social training or apprenticeship. The Convent had been concerned in preparing me for society in the next world, not in this, and I had stayed in the Convent too long to make the many friendships that do more than most things to launch a girl on her social career—too long, for that matter, to know what society meant.

It was a good thing that I did not know, did not realize what was ahead of me, that I allowed myself to be led like a Philadelphian to the slaughter, for a little experience of society is good for everybody. Unless men are to live like brutes—or like monks—they must establish some sort of social relations, and if the social game is played at all, it should be according to the rules. Nowhere are the rules so rigorous as in Philadelphia, nowhere in America based upon more inexorable, as well as dignified, traditions, and


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134 I do not doubt that because of the stumbhng blocks in my path, I learned more about them than the Philadelphia girl whose path was rose-strewn. Were history my mission, it would be amusing to trace these traditions to their source—first through the social life of the Friends who, however, are so exclusive that should this part of the story ever be told, whether as romance or history, it must come from the inside; and then, through the gaieties of the World's People who flatter themselves they are as exclusive, and who have the name for it, and whose exclusiveness is wholesale license compared to that of the Friends:—through the two distinct societies that have lived and flourished side by side ever since Philadelphia was. But my concern is solely with the gaieties as I, individually, shared in them. Now that I have outlived the discomforts of the experience, I can flatter myself that, in my small, insignificant fashion, I was helping to carry on old and fine traditions.

II The most serious of these discomforts arose from the question of clothes, a terrifying question under the existing conditions in the Third Street house, involving more industrious dress-making upstairs in the third story front bedroom than I cared about, and a waste of energies that should have been directed into more profitable channels. I sewed badly and was conscious of it. At the Convent, except for the necessity of darning my stockings, I had


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Rh The ground around the body is now cleared of grass, which is burnt; and it is then carefully swept, so that the deceased lies in the centre of a circular piece of dry earth, a few feet in diameter. On the ground near the body is placed the tomahawk of the dead man, and his nearest of kin stands within or near the margin of the circle. The male mourners then assemble. The first who arrives seizes the tomahawk and endeavours to maim himself with it, aiming a blow usually at the head; but the relative of the deceased whose duty it is to see that all rites are fulfilled wrenches it from him, and prevents him from inflicting any deadly hurt; and the mourner then quietly seats himself at a distance of three or four or five feet from the corpse. Other mourners follow in like manner, performing the same ceremony, and with the same result. None is suffered by the attendant to maim himself.

Very soon a circle is thus formed on the marge of the cleared space within which the body lies; and if the deceased has made himself remarkable by his deeds or his wisdom during life, and if his tribe is large, two, three, or four circles of male mourners assemble on such occasions.

This ceremonial, simple as it is, strikes one with a kind of awe, and begets respect for this people, when seen for the first time in the glade of a dense forest. The mourners daubed with clay, their faces changed and made strangely to resemble one another by the rings around their eyes, which they have carefully painted with white earth; their bent figures, and their looks cast to the ground; the appearance of order and decency which they exhibit—make one regard this rite as scarcely less solemn than that which is performed when a great warrior of our own people is committed to his last resting-place.

The women are not suffered to come nigh the corpse at this stage of the ceremonial. As soon as it is known that death has stricken their companion, they muffle the dogs in opossum rugs, and collect in groups beside the trees adjacent to the spot where the body lies. They approach not nearer than fifty or sixty or one hundred yards. They give utterance to wild lamentations. They cry piteously, and make heard the sounds of their sorrow far beyond the space occupied by the mourners. There are, however, no screams or hideous outcries. We hear the tones of distress. Their notes are plaintive. They swell, and fall, and grow faint, and rise again. Theirs is truly the wail of bereaved creatures, and there is nothing vulgar in the demonstration, because in their wildest grief and sorrow there is the natural and not the affected outpouring of the heart's misery and desolation. The nearest group, generally composed of three women, leads and directs the sounds of lamentation; the next responds in fainter and yet wilder notes; and, if the tribe is numerous, the dirge is continued far into the forest.

When the body has lain about half an hour, the doctor, or sorcerer, or priest approaches, and he provides each of the inner circle of mourners with a stick about six inches in length. The mourners begin to turn up the earth of the cleared space with the sticks, making trenches about two inches in depth and three inches in width, each trench formed by one mourner meeting that formed by his neighbour—so that a circular trench is quickly excavated around the body.

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xiv

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 {|

 * (Frontispiece).
 * Natives of Gippsland|||9
 * Natives of different parts of Victoria|||9
 * A full-blooded black (male)|||10
 * A full-blooded black (female)|||10
 * Natives of Queensland|||11
 * Native of Tasmania|||12
 * Maories|||13
 * Native of Cook or Hervey's Group-|||14
 * Native of China|||15
 * Diagram—Marriages in New Norcia|||88
 * Native dogs|||150
 * Climbing a tree at Twofold Bay|||151
 * Climbing a tree in Queensland|||152
 * Per-bo-re-gan|||176
 * Turkey snare|||192
 * Nardoo plant|||217
 * Fruit of Bunya-bunya|||218
 * A weir|||234
 * Murri-guile|||271
 * Til-bur-nin|||272
 * Mar-rung-nul|||276
 * Moolong-nyeerd|||276
 * Ni-yeerd|||277
 * Necklace of teeth|||278
 * Necklace of reeds|||278
 * Necklace with pendant|||279
 * Ngungy-ngungy|||279
 * Carr-e-la|||279
 * Oogee|||280
 * Patterns adopted in ornamenting weapons, &c.|||284-285
 * Representation of the human figure|||285
 * Copy of a picture on bark|||287
 * A tomb-board|||288
 * Figure of a reptile|||288
 * Marks on figures in caves|||290
 * Figures of animals on rocks on Depuch Island|||293
 * Patterns adopted in scarring the body|||295
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Guinea|||296
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Zealand|||297
 * Forms of ornamentation in Fiji|||297
 * }
 * Mar-rung-nul|||276
 * Moolong-nyeerd|||276
 * Ni-yeerd|||277
 * Necklace of teeth|||278
 * Necklace of reeds|||278
 * Necklace with pendant|||279
 * Ngungy-ngungy|||279
 * Carr-e-la|||279
 * Oogee|||280
 * Patterns adopted in ornamenting weapons, &c.|||284-285
 * Representation of the human figure|||285
 * Copy of a picture on bark|||287
 * A tomb-board|||288
 * Figure of a reptile|||288
 * Marks on figures in caves|||290
 * Figures of animals on rocks on Depuch Island|||293
 * Patterns adopted in scarring the body|||295
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Guinea|||296
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Zealand|||297
 * Forms of ornamentation in Fiji|||297
 * }
 * Representation of the human figure|||285
 * Copy of a picture on bark|||287
 * A tomb-board|||288
 * Figure of a reptile|||288
 * Marks on figures in caves|||290
 * Figures of animals on rocks on Depuch Island|||293
 * Patterns adopted in scarring the body|||295
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Guinea|||296
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Zealand|||297
 * Forms of ornamentation in Fiji|||297
 * }
 * Patterns adopted in scarring the body|||295
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Guinea|||296
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Zealand|||297
 * Forms of ornamentation in Fiji|||297
 * }
 * Forms of ornamentation in New Zealand|||297
 * Forms of ornamentation in Fiji|||297
 * }
 * }

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Rh been as free from this sort of toiling as a lily of the field, and yet I too had gone arrayed, if hardly with the same conspicuous success, and, in my awkward hands, the white tarlatan—who wears tarlatan now?—and the cheap silk from Second Street, which composed my coming out trousseau, were not growing into such things of beauty as to reconcile me to my new task.

As unpleasant were the preliminary lessons in dancing forced upon me by my family when, in my pride of recent graduation with honours, it offended me to be thought by anybody in need of learning anything. One evening every week during a few months, two or three friends and cousins joined me in the Third Street parlour to be drilled into dancing shape for coming out by Madame Martin, the large, portly Frenchwoman who, in the same crinoline and heelless, sidelaced shoes, taught generations of Philadelphia children to dance. Even the Convent could not do without her, though there, to avoid the sinfulness of "round dances," we had, under her tuition, waltzed and polkaed hand in hand, a method which my family feared, if not corrected, might lead to my disgrace.

I seem rather a pathetic figure as I see myself obediently stitching and practising my steps without an idea of the true meaning and magnitude of the adventure I was getting ready for, or a chance of being set about it in the right way. That right way would have been for somebody to give a party or a dance or a reception especially for me to come out at. But nobody among my


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138 friends and relations was obliging enough to accept the responsibility, and at home my Father could not get so far as to think of it. He would have needed too disastrous a panic in Third Street to provide the money. Madame Martin's lessons were already an extravagance and when, on top of them, he had gone so far as to pay for my subscription to the Dancing Class, and, in a cabless town, for the carriage, fortunately shared with friends, to go to it in, he had done all his bank account allowed him to do to start me in life.

It would be as useful to explain that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west as to tell a Philadelphian that the Dancing Class to which I refer was not of the variety presided over by Madame Martin, but one to which Philadelphians went to make use of just such lessons as I had been struggling with for weeks. The origin of its name I never knew, I never asked, the Dancing Class being one of the Philadelphia institutions the Philadelphian took for granted: then, as it always had been and still is, I believe, a distinguished social function of the year. To belong to it was indispensable to the Philadelphian with social pretensions. It was held every other Monday, if I remember—to think I should have a doubt on a subject of such importance!—and the first of the series was given so early in the winter that with it the season may be said to have opened. Perhaps this fact helped my family to decide that it was at the Dancing Class I had best make my first appearance.


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102 The women at this stage cease their lamentations—and all thoughts are directed to the result, the thoughts even of those who cannot see but yet know that a solemn enquiry has been commenced.

As soon as the trench is finished, the doctor and the old men examine it. If an aperture or hole or excavation made by some insect or worm be found in the trench, and if that correspond with some other hole between the trench and the dead body, a connection between them is sought for. A straw or a small reed is used to discover the connection, and if it be determined, their future proceedings are settled; but if that cannot conveniently be done, a line is drawn from the corpse to the aperture in the trench.

In some such way a line is finally drawn, and to whatever point of the horizon it is directed, there must the avengers go to get the kidney-fat of the slayer of their friend. They must bring back to the tribe not only the kidney-fat, but the kidneys and a piece of the flank of the murderer, as a peace offering. By the depth of the aperture in the trench the doctor knows and tells the avengers how far they must travel to find the sorcerer who has caused the death of their friend. This belief in sorcery is firmly implanted in the minds of all the Aboriginal natives of Australia, and the customs arising out of the belief are various. Mr. Samuel Gason finds a curious form of superstition in the Cooper's Creek district. He says that the natives attribute great power to a bone—Mookooellie-duckana (literally, Mookoo, bone; and duckana, strike); the compound word signifying struck by a bone.

As soon as a native becomes at all unwell, fears are entertained that some enemy has used the power of the bone to his injury, and the council of old men assemble to ascertain who is the guilty person.

"Should the patient remain a considerable time without a change, or his malady increase, his wife, if he have one—or if he have not, the wife of his nearest relative—is ordered to proceed to the person who is supposed to have caused the sickness. She does so, accompanied by her paramour, and on arrival immediately makes a few presents to the person suspected of her relative's illness, but makes no accusation against him, contenting herself with simply stating that her relative is fallen ill, and is not expected to recover; whereupon he sympathises with her, and expresses a hope that the invalid will soon be well again. He knows, however, perfectly well, though not accused, that he is suspected of having caused the malady; and, on the following morning, acquaints the woman that she can return to her relative, as he would draw all power away from the bone by steeping it in water. Accordingly, the woman carries back the joyful tidings that she has seen the party who has the bone, and he has promised to take all the power out of it. Now, should the invalid happen to die, and be a person of any influence, the man who acknowledged to having the bone is murdered on the first opportunity. Men threaten their wives (should they do anything wrong) with the bone, causing such dread in their wives, that mostly, instead of having a salutary effect, it causes them to hate their husbands. The bone is not an ordinary one, but the small bone of the human leg; and one of every two of the natives is charged with having one in his possession wherever he may go; but, in my own experience, I have never seen more than a dozen, and those at one of their ceremonies; as, for instance, when the whole tribe desire to kill at a distance—say from fifty to one hundred miles—some influential man of another tribe, they order several of the old men to despoil the dead—that is, to take the small leg-bones from many skeletons. Of these, the relics of their own tribe, they take from three to eight, which they wrap in fat and emu feathers; all the most noted men of the tribe taking them and pointing towards the place where their intended victim is supposed to reside, while doing which they curse the man they desire to kill, naming the death they would wish him. All present are bound to secrecy, and the ceremony lasts about an hour. Should they learn, after a few weeks, that the man they destine to destruction is alive and hearty, they account for it by supposing that some one of the tribe of the person cursed had stopped the power of the bone. So strongly are men, women, and children convinced of the power of the bone, that no reasoning can shake their belief."

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Rh This inquest being concluded, the digging of the grave is ordered. Two men are selected for this duty. A dry but not a much elevated spot is generally Revenge for the death of a member of a tribe is very deliberately planned.

"Should a man of influence and well connected—that is, have numerous relatives—die suddenly, or after a long illness, the tribe believe that he has been killed by some charm. A secret council is held, and some unhappy innocent is accused and condemned, and dealt with by the Pinya.

"The armed band [Pinya] entrusted with the office of executing offenders is appointed as follows:—A council is called of all the old men of the tribe; the chief—a native of influence—selecting the men for the pinya, and directing when to proceed on their sanguinary mission. The night prior to starting, the men composing the pinya, at about seven p.m., move out of the camp to a distance of about three hundred yards, where they sit in a circle, sticking their spears in the ground near them. The women form an outer circle round the men, a number of them bearing fire-sticks in their hands. The chief opens the council by asking who caused the death of their friend or relative, in reply to which the others name several natives of their own or neighbouring tribes, each attaching the crime to his bitterest enemy. The chief, perceiving whom the majority would have killed, calls out his name in a loud voice, when each man grasps his spear. The women who have fire-sticks lay them in a row, and, while so placing them, call out the name of some native, till one of them calls that of the man previously condemned, when all the men simultaneously spear the fire-stick of the woman who has named the condemned. Then the leader takes hold of the fire-stick, and, after one of the old men has made a hole a few inches deep in the ground with his hand, places the fire-stick in it, and covers it up, all declaring that they will slay the condemned, and see him buried like that stick. After going through some practices too beastly to narrate, the women return to the camp. The following morning, at sunrise, the pinya attire themselves in a plaited band, painted white (charpoo), and proceed on their journey until within a day's stage of the place where they suppose the man they seek will be found, and remain there during the day in fear they may be observed by some straggling native. At sunset they renew their journey until within a quarter of a mile of their intended victim's camp, when two men are sent out as spies to the camp, to ascertain if he is there, and, if possible, where he sleeps. After staying there about two hours, they report what they have seen and heard. The next thing done is the smearing of the pinya with white clay, so as to distinguish them from the enemy, in case any of the latter should endeavour to escape. They then march towards the camp at a time when they think the inmates are asleep, from about midnight to two a.m.; and, when within one hundred yards of it, divide into two parties—one going round on one side of the camp, and the second round on the other—forming a complete circle to hinder escape. The dogs begin to bark, and the women to whimper, not daring to cry aloud for fear of the pinya, who, as they invest the camp, make a very melancholy grunting noise. Then one or two walk up to the accused, telling him to come out and they will protect him, which he, aware of the custom, does not believe, yet he obeys, as he is powerless to resist. In the meanwhile, boughs are distributed by the pinya to all the men, women, and children, wherewith to make a noise in shaking, so that the friends and relatives of the condemned may not hear his groans while he is being executed. The pinya then kill the victim by spearing him and striking him with the two-handed weapon, avoiding to strike him below the hips, as they believe, were they to injure the legs, they would be unable to return home. The murder being consummated, they wait for daylight, when the young men of the pinya are ordered to lie down. The old men then wash their weapons, and, getting all the gore and flesh adhering to them off, mix it with some water; this agreeable draught being carried round by an old man, who bestows a little upon each young man to swallow, believing that thereby they will be inspired with courage and strength for any pinya they may afterwards join. The fat of the murdered man is cut off and wrapped round the weapons of all the old men, which are then covered with feathers. They then make for home."—The Dieyerie Tribe of Australian Aborigines, by Samuel Gason, Police-Trooper, 1874.

Threlkeld mentions a bone—Mur-ro-kun—which is obtained by the Ka-ra-kul, a doctor or conjuror. Three of the doctors sleep on the grave of a recently-interred corpse, and in the night, when the doctors are asleep, the dead person inserts a mysterious bone into each thigh of the three doctors, who do not feel the puncture more than if an ant had stung them. The bones remain in the flesh of the doctors without causing them any inconvenience. When they wish to kill any person, by means which cannot be known, they use the bone in a supernatural manner. The bone enters the body of the victim, and he dies.

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104 chosen, and the grave, when formed, is about three feet six inches in length, two feet or a little more in width, and five feet in depth. With rude implements, and sometimes deeply affected by the circumstances attending this, one of the last rites to be performed in disposing of the body of their deceased friend, it has again and again been observed that the diggers of the grave are never careless or slovenly, and never fail to make it neatly. The sides are straight, and the lines are truly parallel. When the excavation is finally completed, the sides pared clean, and the whole interior carefully swept, it is ready for the reception of the body. At this moment the women renew their lamentations; and the voices of the mourners are raised suddenly, so as to startle those amongst the Aborigines who have not attended many burials. But the sounds are not suffered to interfere with the serious work of interment. One of the men cuts a piece of bark from a suitable tree in the vicinity, and trims it until it is exactly the size of the bottom of the grave, where, as soon as it is finished, it is placed, and over it are strewn fresh leaves and very small twigs of the gum-tree, so as to form a soft bed. The chief mourner now approaches, and standing over the grave, one foot on one side of it and one on the other, he suddenly, and with passion and energy, tears off his reed-necklace and the band which encompasses his forehead, and throws them into the grave. He then runs from the grave towards the women, and attempts or seems to attempt to spear them. This attack is well understood by the old women, and generally by both old and young, and the sorrowful man is allowed to expend his energy, each one taking care to avoid injury. The dead man's effects are produced while this is going on, and the sorcerer now takes the foremost place. He opens the small bag, and slowly and mournfully shakes out the contents; and in like manner empties the large bag. The contents—consisting of pieces of hard stone suitable for cutting or paring skins, small relics, twine made of opossum wool, bones for boring holes, and perhaps some articles obtained from Europeans—are placed in the grave; and the bags and the rugs of the deceased are torn up and thrown in likewise. The sorcerer enquires if there is any other property belonging to the dead man: if there is, it is brought forward and placed beside the bags and rugs. All the articles which he owned in life must be laid beside his body now that he is dead.

On the completion of these duties, the body is borne towards the grave. This is done without ceremony, and in some cases hardly with decency. A stout blackfellow takes the deceased on his shoulders, and hastens with his load to the grave, where he drops it suddenly into its resting-place, but not so as to disturb the earthen walls of the grave. After the breath is out of the body it must not be brought into contact with human hands nor with the earth. As the heavy weight falls with a dull sound on the resounding bark, the sorcerer cries aloud "Koor-re-koor!" He cries "Blood for blood!" or "Life for life!" And though a savage cry, not more mournful is the voice of the officiating priest who says over the body of one of our nation "Ashes to ashes—dust to dust." The wild and weird and mournful cry of the sorcerer has scarcely died away when one of the men steps into the grave and adjusts the body. The widow—as this is done—begins her sad ceremonies. She cuts off her hair above her forehead,

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Rh and becoming frantic, seizes fire-sticks, and burns her breasts, arms, legs, and thighs. Rushing from one place to another, and intent only on injuring herself, and seeming to delight in the self-inflicted torture, it would be rash and vain to interrupt her. She would fiercely turn on her nearest relative or friend and burn him with her brands. When exhausted, and when she can scarcely walk, she yet endeavours to kick the embers of the fire, and to throw them about. Sitting down, she takes the ashes in her hands, rubs them into her wounds, and then scratches her face (the only part not touched by the fire-sticks) until the blood mingles with the ashes which partly hide her cruel wounds. In this plight, scratching her face continually, she utters howls and lamentations and quick-voiced curses on the murderer of her husband, which interrupt strangely and harshly the soft and tender sounds of woe which come from the groups of women in the distance. Neither the cries of the bereaved woman nor her frantic movements are much noticed by the men who are charged with the duty of interring the corpse. An opossum rug is now put over the body, and carefully wrapped about it, and the spaces between it and the walls of the grave are filled in with leaves and tender twigs; and the body itself is now covered with leaves. Another piece of bark, similar to that lying in the bottom of the grave, and as well and as neatly trimmed, is laid over the covering of leaves and twigs, and little pieces of bark are so placed at the sides as to prevent the earth from falling upon the coverings of the dead man. This brings the whole within two feet and a half of the surface of the ground. These arrangements being satisfactorily completed, a few of the principal mourners approach. Each one after the other steps into the grave, and, standing on the bark, mournfully contemplates for a few moments the last bed of his departed friend. With eyes cast down, and lip and brow expressive of deep sorrow, he is not surely far removed from his white brother in performing this last not unholy office. Mourners not nearly related to the deceased merely cast a glance towards the covered body, and give place to others.

As soon as these simple rites are performed, the men, not hastily and not without respect to the dead, fill in the grave with earth, using their hands, and sometimes a stone tomahawk. They stop now and again, and trample the earth, and when the work is finally accomplished the sorcerer cries, "No-gee-mee," "That is enough." This voice is the signal to the women, whose wild music is at once stilled—the dogs are let loose, and the members of the tribe are again in motion, and mingle with one another as before. A few women assemble around the widow, minister to her wants, and attempt to console her. The grave is finally completed by raising over it a mound of earth, which is generally twelve or eighteen inches in height, and about nine yards in length, and six yards in width. If the surface of the ground is level, a gutter is made to

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