—Whether coming in a spirit of conciliation or to speak last words of warning or entreaty; and if so—
And there he stopped, as if he couldn't quite get his gait.
“Maybe you're ambassadors,” I said, “ambassadors from Zionville.”
“The very word, sir,” said Louisa, looking pleased. “Ambassadors from Zionville.” And William C. Jones began again to indicate his doubts:
—Whether a certain document received by Magistrates was intended to further public interests, or private ends, or mixed in motive; and if so, whether Dr. Ulswater's account of deceased party in question might be accepted by Magistrates and apologies tendered, according to attitude he (Dr. Uls-water) might hereafter assume; and if so, whether he (Dr. Ulswater) would rather the deceased party in question should be confiscated as incidental to judicial proceedings whose results, although likely to be fatal to him (Dr. Ulswater) and his accomplice, Zionville could no more than vainly regret, public interest being of first importance; and if so, whether Dr. Ulswater would consent to deliver over Mrs. Atkins peaceably, for a consideration, to the necessities of Zionville, and thereby win an honourable place in her (Zionville's) history; and if so, whether he would state his mind on that point without incommoding the subject with the conquest of Peru, or the natural history of South America, and thereby would accommodate the Magistrates; and if so, or whether it would be necessary to return to the Court house in order to hasten proceedings to the end that he (Dr. Ulswater) and his accomplice might be hung before the shades of evening softly descended, in the interests of justice and the destinies of Zionville; and if so, whether he would accept or decline the said proposition,—
“Doctor,” said Louisa, sliding in like syrup. “Allow me to state briefly a few pertinent facts. Zionville is a moral town. It's the moralest town you ever saw. But, sir, we see the necessity of getting this atmospheric morality embodied in substantial institutions. We have already a high school with an Eastern college graduate at the head. We have three churches provided with clergymen, not one of whom dares show himself on the street without a choke collar. And, sir, we have a cemetery; that is, so far as a fence around it, and an excellent grave, well excavated, goes toward providing such an institution; which, however, public opinion is unanimous it don't go far enough. For there was once a time in Zionville when there'd have been no particular difficulty on this point, but those days are passed. In those days, when anybody was dead,—as might happen perhaps by perforation, and airiness in vital parts,—and if he was worth while, we used to ship him to Sacramento to get a ceremony ready made; and if he wasn't worth while, we didn't take much notice where he was planted; and therefore there wasn't any cemetery that anybody could find if he wanted one. Such were our customs and traditions in those days. But Zionville reformed. She took up with sackcloth. She sat down to mourn, and she rose up reformed. 'Morals,' she says, 'shall be my watchword. Morals,' she says, 'that's me.' Sir, since then there ain't anybody died in Zionville whatsoever, none whatever at all. But sometime ago there was a man named Jim Tweedy, who got indented with a chimney falling on him, to that extent he looked not only dead but disreputable, and you couldn't have told him from any other miscellaneous débris. And one of our esteemed citizens, named Pete Chapel, he got officious and jubilant, and went off by himself, and dug a sepulchre on some land that belonged to him out the end of Main Street. But was Jim Tweedy dead? Doctor, he was not! But he played off he was for forty-eight hours, and then he came to, and looks around the corners of himself, and says, 'Blamed if I ain't all triangles!' but he wouldn't have a thing to do with that location Pete Chapel had fixed up for him particular. He rejected it with indignation. Indeed, he was perhaps not justly to be blamed, though he's never had the standing in the community he had before, on account of our feeling he was a man that couldn't be relied on when public interest was concerned, besides looking discreditable on account of indentations in his surface; nor it couldn't be denied that Pete Chapel's position was uneasy too, seeing it was allowed as up to him to provide something for the situation. So he put up Tweedy's grave for a raffle, and it fetched a good price, over the value of the land about it, on account of public spirit in the town. After that it changed hands considerable, the price fluctuating according to rumours of indispositions, or strangers in town looking warlike. It went up and down till it got to be a sort of thermometer of Zionville's condition of depression, or confidence in its destiny. At last it fell into the hands of William C. Jones, here present, who donated it to Zionville, and Zionville put a fence around the property and denominated the same a Cemetery. Such and so far is the history of this institution. But, sir, we feel that our Cemetery has not as yet attained its proper standing in our community by formally entering upon its career of public usefulness. Our morality forbids the thought of too direct action to that end. It has been suggested that time would remedy this want. True. But meanwhile Zionville sees its progress stayed, its development halted. Now, sir, Zionville discerns in Mrs. Atkins an extraordinary fitness for this purpose. William C. Jones and I have consulted. We discern a rare opportunity, a crisis in Zionville's history. We have consulted with our fellow citizens, and they have took to the idea like a nigger to a watermelon. Our determination is inflexible. A monument has been ordered from Sacramento. The ceremonies are arranged whereby to plant Mrs. Atkins, whereby to inaugurate our Cemetery conformable to the spirit of our citizens. The San Francisco press has been notified to send representatives. All is prepared. Name your price, sir. It's yours. Name your conditions. They're granted. The antecedents of Mrs. Atkins are the most essential elements in her value, and we hope to see them, in your own eloquent language, indelibly engraven on the monument.”
“Why, bless my soul!” said Dr. Ulswater. “What good would a Peruvian mummy do you? Why don't you bury a buffalo and call it a bishop? What's the idea?”
“Fame,” said Louisa.
“Fame? fame? But look here! Mummies belong in museums!”
“Very good,” said Louisa. “Ain't a cemetery a museum? Alas, sir! a collection of various mortality?”