or down, down
in the wet and clinging earth. For loathly things are hidden deep in
the mold--things, foul and all unnameable--long worms--slimy creatures
with blind eyes and useless wings--abortions and deformities of the
insect tribe born of poisonous vapor--creatures the very sight of which
would drive you, oh, delicate woman, into a fit of hysteria, and would
provoke even you, oh, strong man, to a shudder of repulsion! But there
is a worse thing than these merely physical horrors which come of
so-called Christian burial--that is, the terrible UNCERTAINTY. What, if
after we have lowered the narrow strong box containing our dear
deceased relation into its vault or hollow in the ground--what, if
after we have worn a seemly garb of woe, and tortured our faces into
the fitting expression of gentle and patient melancholy--what, I say,
if after all the reasonable precautions taken to insure safety, they
should actually prove insufficient? What--if the prison to which we
have consigned the deeply regretted one should not have such close
doors as we fondly imagined? What, if the stout coffin should be
wrenched apart by fierce and frenzied fingers--what, if our late dear
friend should NOT be dead, but should, like Lazarus of old, come forth
to challenge our affection anew? Should we not grieve sorely that we
had failed to avail ourselves of the secure and classical method of
cremation? Especially if we had benefited by worldly goods or money
left to us by the so deservedly lamented! For we are self-deceiving
hypocrites--few of us are really sorry for the dead--few of us remember
them with any real tenderness or affection. And yet God knows! they may
need more pity than we dream of!

But let me to my task. I, Fabio Romani, lately deceased, am about to
chronicle the events of one short year--a year in which was compressed
the agony of a long and tortured life-time! One little year!--one sharp
thrust from the dagger of Time! It pierced my heart--the wound still
gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is tainted as it falls!

One suffering, common to many, I have never known--that is--poverty. I
was born rich. When my father, Count Filippo Romani, died, leaving me,
then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions--sole
head of his powerful house--there were many candid friends who, with
their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my future. Nay,
there were even some who looked forward to my physical and