swelling to the anthem's measure? Cold! cold! cold! Nay; I will rise. I
will respond unto the funeral dirge. I will shout. Oh! my trunk is
hardened, and my tongue is glued. Silence! they pause. Say, do they hear
me? No. Silence, horrible and awful. Hark! they mourn with lamentation
on my fate. O, Heaven! must I endure all this? Must the living weep for
the dead, and the conscious dead be doomed to dismal silence. Horror!
horror! horror! IS THIS TO BE DEAD?

* * * * *

A convocation! Yes. The holy brothers in assembled synod to elect a
brother holier than themselves. Nay, I do forbid. I, the Abbot who have
loved ye all, refuse permission to your meeting. Disperse, disperse. Do
ye not hear? Is there no charity alive? Who dares usurp my chair, and I
not yet entombed? What! is justice driven out where heavenly men should
dwell? I see it. I mark it. The leaven of pride is kneaded in the
brotherhood. Intriguing hypocrites usurp the House of God. What! brother
John, the fat, the corpulent, the lazy! of whom I know ten thousand
heinous sins; the least sufficient to condemn a soul. An Abbot, chosen
by the holy, is the elect of God. But he--no, no, no. It shall not be.
God will forbid it. They put the crosier in his hand. For shame! for
shame! Let not the vicious living sit in the chair of virtue that is
departed. Why see! he kneels. He kneels before the shrine, where, until
now, he never bent to pray. He grasps the crosier with loving firmness.
It shall not be. Is there no interposing Deity to slay the sinner in his
wickedness? I, I will seize the crosier from his filthy hand. No. My arm
lays idly at my side. Is THIS TO BE DEAD?

* * * * *