on it,and I was proud when I first saw it,but by and by I noticed that whenever an old friend of mine came along he would hook his chin on the railing and pull a long face and read along down till he came to that,and then he would chuckle to himself and walk off,looking satisfied and comfortable.So I scratched it off to get rid of those fools.But a dead man always takes a deal of pride in his monument.Yonder goes half a dozen of the Jarvises now,with the family monument along.And Smithers and some hired specters went by with his awhile ago.Hello,Higgins,good-by,old friend!That's Meredith Higgins—died in ‘44—belongs to our set in the cemetery—fine old family—great-grandmother was an Injun—I am on the most familiar terms with him—he didn't hear me was the reason he didn't answer me.And I am sorry,too,because I would have liked to introduce you.You would admire him.He is the most disjointed,sway-backed,and generally distorted old skeleton you ever saw,but he is full of fun.When he laughs it sounds like rasping two stones together,and he always starts it off with a cheery screech like raking a nail across a window-pane.Hey,Jones!That is old Columbus Jones—shroud cost four hundred dollars—entire trousseau,including monument,twenty-seven hundred.This was in the spring of ‘26.It was enormous style for those days.Dead people came all the way from the Alleghenies to see his things—the party that occupied the grave next to mine remembers it well.Now do you see that individual going along with a piece of a head-board under his arm,one leg-bone below his knee gone,and not a thing in the world on？That is Barstow Dalhousie,and next to Columbus Jones he was the most sumptuously outfitted person that ever entered our cemetery.We are all leaving.We cannot tolerate the treatment we are receiving at the hands of our descendants.They open new cemeteries,but they leave us to our ignominy.They mend the streets,but they never mend anything that is about us or belongs to us.Look at that coffin of mine—yet I tell you in its day it was a piece of furniture that would have attracted attention in any drawing-room in this city.You may have it if you want it—I can't afford to repair it.Put a new bottom in her,and part of a new top,and a bit of fresh lining along the left side,and you'll find her about as comfortable as any receptacle of her species you ever tried.No thanks—no,don't mention it—you.have been civil to me,and I would give you all the property I have got before I would seem ungrateful.Now this winding-sheet is a kind of a sweet thing in its way,if you would like to—No？Well,just as you say,but I wished to be fair and liberal—there's nothing mean about me.Good-by,friend,I must be going.I may have a good way to go to-night—don't know.I only know one thing for certain,and that is that I am on the emigrant trail now,and I'll never sleep in that crazy old cemetery again.I will travel till I find respectable quarters,if I have to hoof it to New Jersey.All the boys are going.It was decided in public conclave,last night,to emigrate,and by the time the sun rises there won't be a bone left in our old habitations.Such cemeteries may suit my surviving friends,but they do not suit the remains that have the honor to make these remarks.My opinion is the general opinion.If you doubt it,go and see how the departing ghosts upset things before they started.They were almost riotous in their demonstrations of distaste.Hello,here are some of the Bledsoes,and if you will give me a lift with this tombstone I guess I will join company and jog along with them—mighty respectable old family,the Bledsoes,and used to always come out in six-horse hearses and all that sort of thing fifty years ago when I walked these streets in daylight.Good-by,friend.”
And with his gravestone on his shoulder he joined the grisly procession,dragging his damaged coffin after him,for notwithstanding he pressed it upon me so earnestly,I utterly refused his hospitality.I suppose that for as much as two hours these sad outcasts went clacking by,laden with their dismal effects,and all that time I sat pitying them.One or two of the youngest and least dilapidated among them inquired about midnight trains on the railways,but the rest seemed unacquainted with that mode of travel,and merely asked about common public roads to various towns and cities,some of which are not on the map now,and vanished from it and from the earth as much as thirty years ago,and some few of them never had existed anywhere but on maps,and private ones in real-estate agencies at that.And they asked about the condition of the cemeteries in these towns and cities,and about the reputation the citizens bore as to reverence for the dead.
This whole matter interested me deeply,and likewise compelled my sympathy for these homeless ones.And it all seeming real,and I not knowing it was a dream,I mentioned to one shrouded wanderer an idea that had entered my head to publish an account of this curious and very sorrowful exodus,but said also that I could not describe it truthfully,and just as it occurred,without seeming to trifle with a grave subject and exhibit an irreverence for the dead that would shock and distress their surviving friends.But this bland and stately remnant of a former citizen leaned him far over my gate and whispered in my ear,and said:
“Do not let that disturb you.The community that can stand such graveyards as those we are emigrating from can stand anything a body can say about the neglected and forsaken dead that lie in them.”
At that very moment a cock crowed,and the weird procession vanished and left not a shred or a bone behind.I awoke,and found myself lying with my head out of the bed and “sagging”downward considerably—a position favorable to dreaming dreams with morals in them,maybe,but not poetry.
1870
NOTE：The reader is assured that if the cemeteries in his town are kept in good order,this Dream is not leveled at his town at all,but is leveled particularly and venomously at the next town.
