This business-like way of illustrating a touching story of the heart by laying the several fragments of the lover before us and naming them, was as grotesque a performance, and as ghastly, as any I ever witnessed.  I hardly knew whether to smile or shudder.  There are nerves and muscles in our frames whose functions and whose methods of working it seems a sort of sacrilege to describe by cold physiological names and surgical technicalities, and the monk’s talk suggested to me something of this kind.  Fancy a surgeon, with his nippers lifting tendons, muscles and such things into view, out of the complex machinery of a corpse, and observing, “Now this little nerve quivers—­the vibration is imparted to this muscle—­from here it is passed to this fibrous substance; here its ingredients are separated by the chemical action of the blood—­one part goes to the heart and thrills it with what is popularly termed emotion, another part follows this nerve to the brain and communicates intelligence of a startling character—­the third part glides along this passage and touches the spring connected with the fluid receptacles that lie in the rear of the eye.  Thus, by this simple and beautiful process, the party is informed that his mother is dead, and he weeps.”  Horrible!

I asked the monk if all the brethren up stairs expected to be put in this place when they died.  He answered quietly: 

“We must all lie here at last.”

See what one can accustom himself to.—­The reflection that he must some day be taken apart like an engine or a clock, or like a house whose owner is gone, and worked up into arches and pyramids and hideous frescoes, did not distress this monk in the least.  I thought he even looked as if he were thinking, with complacent vanity, that his own skull would look well on top of the heap and his own ribs add a charm to the frescoes which possibly they lacked at present.

Here and there, in ornamental alcoves, stretched upon beds of bones, lay dead and dried-up monks, with lank frames dressed in the black robes one sees ordinarily upon priests.  We examined one closely.  The skinny hands were clasped upon the breast; two lustreless tufts of hair stuck to the skull; the skin was brown and sunken; it stretched tightly over the cheek bones and made them stand out sharply; the crisp dead eyes were deep in the sockets; the nostrils were painfully prominent, the end of the nose being gone; the lips had shriveled away from the yellow teeth:  and brought down to us through the circling years, and petrified there, was a weird laugh a full century old!

It was the jolliest laugh, but yet the most dreadful, that one can imagine.  Surely, I thought, it must have been a most extraordinary joke this veteran produced with his latest breath, that he has not got done laughing at it yet.  At this moment I saw that the old instinct was strong upon the boys, and I said we had better hurry to St. Peter’s.  They were trying to keep from asking, “Is—­is he dead?”