“I would rather be embalmed in the throbbing heart of the sea, with which my own heart beat so long in unison. My grave has been unmarked for a century, so why not forever? I would prefer to be commander of that greatest army of all, the unknown dead, whose resting place is marked only by monuments of billows and flowers of feathery spray. A bridal veil of silver surge is as elaborate a shroud as I desire.” “How about cremation?” “We’ll get enough of that down here some day, so it is useless to undergo the ‘roasting’ process twice. Yet it has its advantages. Soldiers and sailors don’t get much time for godliness, you know, and as cleanliness is next to it, cremation might—” “John Brown’s body lies a smouldering in—” That was as far as Mr. Anon could proceed, for he had fired John Brown’s anger. That worthy said he was hanged if he were going to allow anybody to “roast” him by any such incendiary remark. “Choke him off,” came the chorus from all sides. “Here’s a rope. String him up.” This brought up such unpleasant recollections of the past that John Brown subsided. I hastened to pacify him by observing: “You have no cause for disquiet, for your bones lie peacefully in the Adirondacks at North Elba.” “Hush!” warned Holmes. “That word always invokes Napoleon.” The Corsican had indeed materialized. He glared at me as he said: “Peace at Elba? If you found peace there, you accomplished more than did the great Napoleon, and that were impossible.” “Ah, but you see I hadn’t met my Waterloo,” I retorted. Wellington laughed tauntingly. “Neither had I when I went to Elba,” supplemented Bonaparte, and then and there I met my Waterloo at the hands of Napoleon. It is poor policy for a writer of history to dispute the maker of it, though I am aware the historical novelists hold other views. For a moment it seemed as if Wellington’s tantalizing mirth would precipitate another battle between the illustrious warriors. Then the two men shook hands, looking like two prize fighters about to enter the ring. Nothing happened, however, and with a trace of disappointment in his tone,—for immortals are very like mortals and he dearly loved a fight,—Paul Jones went on: “It is a good thing I’m dead, for living heroes always get restless and tumble from the clay pedestal on which an admiring public places them. Heroes should be handled with care, for they are perishable goods. Both Dewey and Dowie have had their day. Dewey turned his house over to his wife so the sheriff couldn’t get it, as many another man has done before and since. Evidently the dear public didn’t believe the two were one, for the hero-worshippers swept him to obscurity on a tidal wave of regretful tears. I wonder if he said it was all Mrs. Dewey’s fault. You know it is more difficult to manage a wife in America nowadays than it was in the days of Solomon, when the wives were so frequent that a man couldn’t remember which one was to blame.”