When a man dies he goes to the ground, as a slaughtered ox to the butcher's stall, or a dead horse to the knacker's.

That is the end of him, and it is of no use asking any more questions.

You might as well ask what becomes of the pins that are lost by myriads of millions, to the weight of many tons in a year.

You might as well inquire what becomes of anything that is old, or worn out, or broken.

A man is like anything else, an agglomeration of matter, capable of a few more tricks than a monkey, and capable of a few less than a priest.