Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1897-06-03
CHAPTER I.

rative city, and they will tell you
was one of the victims Of the cholera
that ravaged Naples in 1884, and that
my mortal remains lie Wondering in
the funeral vault of my ancestors.
Yet-I livei | fell the warm blood
Coursing through ny veins-the blood
of thirty summers-the prime of early
manhood inYigorates me, and makes
these eyes of mine keen and bright
these muscles strong as iron-this
hand powerful of grip-this well-knit
form erect and proud of bearing. Yes!
I am alive, though declared to be
dead; alive in the fullness of manly
fOrce-and even sorrow has left few
distinguishing marks upon me, save
one. My hair, once ebony black, is
white as a wreath of Alpine snow,
though it's clustering curls are thick
as ever.
"a constitutional inheritance?" asks
one physician, observing my frosted
locks.
"A sudden shoCk?" suggests another.
Exposure to intense heat?" hints
a third
1 answer none of them | did once
| told my story to a man l met by
chance-One renowned for medical
skill and kindness. He heard me to
the end in evident incredulity and
alarm, and limited at the possibility of
madness. Since then l have never
spoken.
But now write. | am far from all
persecution can set down the truth
fearlessly. | can dip the pen in my
own bio I'd if | choose, and none shall
eainsay mel For the green silence of
vast South American forest encom-
passes me-the grand and stately
silence of a virginia. nature, almost
unbroken by the ruthless step of a
mans civiliZatiOn-a haven of perfect
calm, delicately disturbed by the f1ut-
tering wings and soft voices of birds,
and the gentle or stormy murmur of
the freeborn winds of heaven. Within
this charmed circle of rest I dwell
here | left up my Cverburdened heart
like trimming chalice, and empty it
on the ground, to the last drop of gall
COZ tanned therein. The world shall
know my history.
Dead, and yet living! How can that
be?-yOu ask. All, my friendsi If YOU
seek to be rid of your relations for a
certainty, you should have their
bodies cremated. Otherwise there is
no knowing what may happen! Crema-
&c, hn hoe he w, II
is clean, and safe. Why should there
be any prejudice against it? Surely it
i better to give the remains of what
we loved Cor pretended to love- to
cleansing fire and pure air than to
lay them in a cold vault of stone, or
down, down in the wet and clinging
earth. For lOathly things are hidden
deer in the mold things foul and all
unnameable- long worms Shiny crea-
lures with blind eyes ana useless
wings bortion5 and deformities of
the insect trihe horn of poisonous vapOr
creatures the very sight of which
would drive you, oh, delicate women,
into fit of hysteria, and would pro-
woke even you, oh, strong man, to a
shudder of repusion. But there is a
worse thing than these merely phys
zeal horrors which come of sO-called
Christian burial-that is, the terrible
uncertainty. What, if after we have
lowered the narrow strong box con-
tanning 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 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS, [
say, if after all the reasonable precau-
items 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 lament
ed! For We are self-deceiving hypo-
crttes-few Of us are really sorry for
the dead-fow Of us remember them
with any tenderness or affection. And
yet, God knows! they may need more
pity than we dream of!
But let me to my task. 1, Fabio
Romanio lately deceased, am about to
chronicle the events of one short wear
a year in which was compressed the
agony of long and tortured lifetime.
One little year!-one sharp thrust
from the dagger Of Timei 1t pierced
my heart-the wound still gapes and
bleeds, and every drop OF blood is
tainted as it falls!
One suffering, common to many, /
have never known-that is-poverty
was born rich. When my father
Count F'ilippo Romani, died, leaving
me then lad of seventeen, sole heir
to his enormous IRRESPONSIBLE 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 mental destruction with
a certain degree Of malignant expec
tation-and they we're estimable per
sons too. They were respectfully con
nected-their words carried weight
and for time I was the object O
their maliciously pious fears. I wal
destined according to their ca1cuIo