"Why comest thou here, presumptuous mortal?" said the Supreme Priest in
clear, deliberate tones. "Is it thy unhallowed purpose with this
implement to uncover the mysteries of death and break the repose of the
Good?"

The Great Mayor, still kneeling, drew from his robe a document with
portentous seals: "Behold, O ineffable, thy servant, having warrant of
his people, entreateth at thy holy hands the custody of the Good, to the
end and purpose that they lie in fitter earth, by consecration duly
prepared against their coming."

With that he placed in the sacerdotal hands the order of the Council of
Aldermen decreeing the removal. Merely touching the parchment, the
Supreme Priest passed it to the Head Necropolitan at his side, and
raising his hands relaxed the severity of his countenance and exclaimed:
"The gods comply."

Down the line of prelates on either side, his gesture, look and words
were successively repeated. The Great Mayor rose to his feet, the choir
began a solemn chant and, opportunely, a funeral car drawn by ten white
horses with black plumes rolled in at the gate and made its way through
the parting crowd to the grave selected for the occasion--that of a high
official whom I had treated for chronic incumbency. The Great Mayor
touched the grave with his golden spade (which he then presented to the
Supreme Priest) and two stalwart diggers with iron ones set vigorously
to work.

At that moment I was observed to leave the cemetery and the country; for
a report of the rest of the proceedings I am indebted to my sainted
father, who related it in a letter to me, written in jail the night
before he had the irreparable misfortune to take the kink out of a rope.

As the workmen proceeded with their excavation, four bishops stationed
themselves at the corners of the grave and in the profound silence of
the multitude, broken otherwise only by the harsh grinding sound of
spades, repeated continuously, one after another, the solemn invocations
and responses from the Ritual of the Disturbed, imploring the blessed
brother to forgive. But the blessed brother was not there. Full fathom
two they mined for him in vain, then gave it up. The priests were
visibly disconcerted, the populace was aghast, for that grave was
indubitably vacant.

After a brief consultation with the Supreme Priest, the Great Mayor
ordered the workmen to open another grave. The ritual was omitted this
time until the coffin should be uncovered. There was no coffin, no body.


The cemetery was now a scene of the wildest confusion and dismay. The
people shouted and ran hither and thither, gesticulating, clamoring, all
talking at once, none listening. Some ran for spades, fire-shovels,
hoes, sticks, anything. Some brought carpenters' adzes, even chisels
from the marble works, and with these inadequate aids set to work upon
the first graves they came to. Others fell upon the mounds with their
bare hands, scraping away the earth as eagerly as dogs digging for
marmots. Before nightfall the surface of the greater part of the
cemetery had been upturned; every grave had been explored to the bottom
and thousands of men were tearing away at the interspaces with as
furious a frenzy as exhaustion would permit. As night came on torches
were lighted, and in the sinister glare these frantic mortals, looking
like a legion of fiends performing some unholy rite, pursued their
disappointing work until they had devastated the entire area. But not a
body did they find--not even a coffin.

The explanation is exceedingly simple. An important part of my income
had been derived from the sale of _cadavres_ to medical colleges, which
never before had been so well supplied, and which, in added recognition
of my services to science, had all bestowed upon me diplomas, degrees
and fellowships without number. But their demand for _cadavres_ was
unequal to my supply: by even the most prodigal extravagances they could
not consume the one-half of the products of my skill as a physician. As
to the rest, I had owned and operated the most extensive and thoroughly
appointed soapworks in all the country. The excellence of my "Toilet
Homoline" was attested by certificates from scores of the saintliest
theologians, and I had one in autograph from Badelina Fatti the most
famous living soaprano.




THE MAJOR'S TALE


In the days of the Civil War practical joking had not, I think, fallen
into that disrepute which characterizes it now. That, doubtless, was
owing to our extreme youth--men were much younger than now, and evermore
your very young man has a boisterous spirit, running easily to
horse-play. You cannot think how young the men were in the early
sixties! Why, the average age of the entire Federal Army was not more
than twenty-five; I doubt if it was more than twenty-three, but not
having the statistics on that point (if there are any) I want to be
moderate: we will say twenty-five. It is true a man of twenty-five was
in that heroic time a good deal more of a man than one of that age is
now; you could see that by looking at him. His face had nothing of that
unripeness so conspicuous in his successor. I never see a young fellow
now without observing how disagreeably young he really is; but during the
war we did not think of a man's age at all unless he happened to be
pretty well along in life. In that case one could not help it, for the
unloveliness of age assailed the human countenance then much earlier
than now; the result, I suppose, of hard service--perhaps, to some
extent, of hard drink, for, bless my soul! we did shed the blood of the