[Illustration: North porch of Trinity Church, and the first meeting of
the sociable ghost and the newspaper man.]
THE SOCIABLE GHOST.
BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A REPORTER WHO WAS INVITED
BY THE SOCIABLE GHOST TO A GRAND BANQUET, BALL,
AND CONVENTION UNDER THE GROUND OF OLD
TRINITY CHURCHYARD. A TRUE TALE OF
THE THINGS HE SAW AND DID NOT
SEE WHILE HE WAS NOT
THERE.
WRITTEN DOWN BY
OLIVE HARPER
AND ANOTHER.
ILLUSTRATED BY
THOMAS MCILVAINE AND A. W. SCHWARTZ.
“The breezy call of incense breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed:
The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.”
(COPYRIGHT 1903, BY J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company.)
NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 ROSE STREET.
***
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE BEGINNING OF THE ACQUAINTANCE 9
CHAPTER II.
THE REPORTER MEETS THE LEADER OF THE FOUR HUNDRED 46
CHAPTER III.
THE GAMBLER'S PENANCE 59
CHAPTER IV.
THE MENDED GHOST 78
CHAPTER V.
THE PRINCESS FROM EGYPT 91
CHAPTER VI.
THE GHOSTS TELL STORIES, AND COMPARE NOTES 141
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GRAND BALL, CONVENTION AND END OF IT ALL 203
***
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
North porch of Trinity Church, and the first meeting of the
sociable ghost and the newspaper man Frontispiece
“Drat that toe! I'm sure I broke it off” 33
“I flatter myself that the decorations are fine” 54
“Did you say that to me?” 62
“I won't play if such favoritism is shown” 76
The mended ghost 79
“But you must join us” 87
“Forget it, forget it!” 95
The Princess Shep 109
With a smile of ineffable sweetness she vanished 120
“Don't rouse the sleeping lion” 122
“I found her sitting at the piano” 154
They had evidently found the buffet 166
The dance and cake walk 178
N.B.—While other books have pictures “taken from life,” it
should be noticed that those In this book are taken from death.
***
DEDICATION.
To all who are able to read between the lines,
and understand
the real purpose and meaning of this book,
it is dedicated with
the sincere friendship of the authors.
***
CHAPTER I.
THE BEGINNING OF THE ACQUAINTANCE
At the northwestern end of Trinity Church stands a clump of bushes under
a tree, and lying under both bushes and tree is a large, flat stone
with the inscription quite effaced. It is the entrance to one of the
old family vaults. Beneath this dense shrubbery in the darkness at
night sat a young man. The hour was so late that even in that busy
neighborhood the lights were few and far between, except in the tall
newspaper offices up the street.
Few people could be seen on the great thoroughfare which but a few hours
before had been so animated. Stillness reigned save for the occasional
train of cars now and then whizzing by at the back, and the Broadway
cars shooting along at great and uninterrupted speed in front.
The young man was not ill nor out of employ, as the notebook and
pencils in his pocket would show. Yet he was plainly out of sorts with
everything.
A little dog came sniffing around him and he kicked it viciously, and a
starved kitten crept timidly up to him, whereat he picked a piece of
stone from the slab and threw it at the little creature which,
frightened, scampered away in the darkness.
Aroused thus from his reverie, the young man looked and felt more
miserable than ever. He was surprised at himself, for this was the first
time in his life that he had ever made a movement to harm an animal. His
conscience pricked him and he did not like the sensation.
From all this it may be inferred that the young man was in love, and
that was the truth; and worse than all, the girl of his choice was now
as unattainable as one of the stars in the Milky Way. First of all, she
was the only daughter of a millionaire, and secondly, she was to be
married the next day to an impecunious nobleman from sunny France.
Thirdly, she had eyes only for the grand title. And that was why this
young man sat alone in the darkest corner of Trinity churchyard, kicking
dogs and stoning cats.
That very day his chief had given him an assignment to go and write a
description of the wedding presents. He had turned in his copy, and not
waiting to find out if there was anything else to do, went out, and with
the instinct of a hurt dog, had chosen the darkest spot he knew of, and
had crept down to this place, which even in daylight is gloomy, prepared
to suffer as much as he wished to, unknown to anyone. If he went home he
must see his adoring mother. He was not prepared for that. He felt that
he could not bear the scrutiny of her soft but penetrating glance until
he had gotten over the worst. He knew well that she would see his
trouble, even though he said no word, and that she would wait for him to
speak. But, even this unspoken sympathy was more than he could endure.
He intended to fight it out alone, now and in the darkness, shut out
from human kind and curious scrutiny.
A fine old pipe and a paper of tobacco, not yet opened, and a box of
matches were in his pocket, but he was in no mood for the soothing
influence of the weed. In another pocket was a flask of good whiskey
which he always carried for such emergencies as might arise in his
profession as a reporter, but it was full and untouched. He had
forgotten that he had it.
The noises of the great city were settling down to a soft hum as it
approached midnight. The trains and electric cars were fewer now, while
the throbbing of the newspaper presses away up on Park Row sounded clear
and distinct in his ears as the other noises ceased. The sweet calm of a
mild May night fell unconsciously upon him and brought with it a feeling
almost of resignation.
Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone. Amazed and bewildered, he
saw that the old graveyard was waking up, and that from every grave
issued a shade which took form as it rose fully free from the earth.
A shadowy figure quite near him appeared entirely ignorant of his
presence, and as soon as his cerements were free from the mold of the
grave from which he had come, gave an audible sniff, shook himself so
that his bones rattled like a bag of dry oyster shells, and as he did so
said:
“Zounds and pea blossoms! What wouldn’t I give for a good pipe full of
tobacco! I’ve a notion to stay dead.”
Saying this the loose-jointed ghost threw one leg over his tombstone and
began to drum on it with his heels, while he folded his bony arms with
supreme disgust.
The newspaper man, now all alert to the situation, hurriedly opened the
paper of tobacco and filling his pipe, which was of that warm, rich hue
of brown so dear to the heart of the smoker as the result of many hours
of solitude, and much copy, he lighted it and sent out a couple of
whiffs to pave the way for his voice which followed the puffs of smoke.
The ghost still sat drumming with his heels on the stone and watched the
operation.
“If I—may I—offer you my pipe?” stammered the young man.
“You may, indeed, and be sure of the thanks of a man who has not smoked
for so long that he has almost forgotten how it tastes.”
The ghost sighed so heavily that the rags fluttered around as he drew
himself up with dignity, at the same time covering his breast bone with
the morsels of his shroud. He received the pipe most graciously and
enjoyed it with infinite gusto, though, to be sure, the smoke seemed to
ooze out afterwards from all over his angular anatomy.
The little heart of fire glowed brightly in the bowl of the pipe, and as
the rich cloud of smoke gradually enveloped the ghost, it told more
eloquently than words could have done of his enjoyment. The newspaper
man stood ready to fill it up again, and it suddenly occurred to him
that possibly the contents of the small flask in his pocket might prove
acceptable, so he made bold to offer it, saying:
“I have a little old whiskey, if you ever indulge—”
“Indulge! Dear sir, you are a Christian! I have not had a snifter for—as
many years as I have been dead. Tears enough to float a seventy-four gun
ship have bedewed my grave, but nobody has ever thought of pouring out a
little good rum. Ah, there is a flavor about rum so rich and fine that
it makes one think of all the molasses in the world boiled down into one
bottle. Here’s to your health; your very good health, the health of your
wife, your children, your mother, and hoping that your bottle may never
be empty!”
With every fresh sentiment the ghost lifted the bottle to his mouth, and
at last handed that and the pipe back with evident reluctance. The pipe
was now cold.
“Would you care to smoke again?” asked the young man.
“I would indeed, my good sir. I cannot tell you the comfort you have
given me on this occasion, an occasion only too trying to the most
hardened ghost.”
“May I ask the nature of it?”
“You may; you may. I owe you that much. But, before I do, let me move
around so that I cannot see that fellow’s headstone. It makes me sick.
Just see that epitaph. I knew the chap, and all about him. The epitaph
tells how brave he was in the Mexican war where he fell a hero. Instead
of dying like a hero, he ran like a whitehead—he did—and caught his foot
in a vine and fell into a cactus bush and was kicked to death by a
Roman-nosed mule with one loose shoe. It was that loose shoe that did
the business.”
Here the ghost fell to puffing again with a vigor born of vexation and
disgust. The newspaper man now saw that there were many other forms
quite as unsubstantial as this one walking around slowly. He noticed
also that they kicked vigorously at some of the headstones as they
passed, and that they all appeared to have and show a special hatred for
some dark objects scattered among the graves. The young man could not
resist the desire to know why the other ghosts seemed to be so angry.
The ghost who was still smoking with evident pleasure, said:
“Oh, the usual thing.”
“And what is that, if I may ask?”
“Oh, just as if it is not enough to be dead and not have your passport
yet! Here come a lot of fools and stick flowers over your grave. It is
true that we do not have so much to complain of in this respect as some
of the newer cemeteries do. The most of us have been here for so long
that we have no relatives to come here and leave them, and the public
thinks it is quite honor enough to be buried here. Other cemeteries may
be forgotten or removed, but this one is as solid as the rock of
Gibraltar. It is honeycombed about as much too. And there are flowers
enough growing in their proper places without sticking more around. We
don’t care so much for sentiment as people seem to think we do. We have
learned the value of it. We have grown practical.”
The newspaper man held out his hand for the pipe to fill it again,
gently asking the ghost to tell him what this special occasion might be,
adding that he would be very grateful for anything that the ghost might
be willing to impart, as probably he would never have a better chance to
learn.
The other ghosts sauntered along, looking enviously at this one as he
sat there smoking vehemently and reflecting. It actually appeared that
the ghosts could see and that they looked at him, though in the very
nature of things they ought not to be able to see without eyes. Their
efforts to appear entirely unconcerned while the favored one sat smoking
were funny, or would have been so under any other circumstances.
The young journalist had mentally christened this as the Sociable Ghost,
and he waited silently, observing him while he did so, and pondered on
the delight of the smoker as he in time became conscious of the glances
of envy and overwhelming smoke-hunger of the other ghosts. They
evidently would have done anything for just one whiff at that pipe, but
they saw that there was nothing to hope for, and that they were
confronting another bloated monopoly. But they all ranged themselves in
line with apparent carelessness, so that the night wind should waft the
smoke toward them. They sniffed the smoke eagerly and looked as though
they would like to annihilate the smoker.
Apparently unnoticing and unconcerned, the sociable ghost continued to
smoke as though reflecting on what he should say to this young man, and
possibly it occurred to him that if he told all there was to say too
soon, the young man might go away, and there was still quite a lot of
tobacco in the paper, and some more of the whiskey which he had left in
the flask for good manners. He could not jeopardize what might be his
last chance.
“There is a sort of sameness here,” said the ghost irrelevantly, with a
comprehensive wave of the hand, “particularly in the architecture.” And
then he suddenly kicked at a bone which had attracted his attention,
though how it had escaped the attention of Floyd, whose whole life is
spent in trying to keep the place immaculately clean is a mystery. The
young man thought perhaps the little dog had brought it in. But, however
it had come there, it seemed to annoy the ghost greatly. He said
angrily:
“There’s reverence for you! There’s respect and sentiment. When I was a
small shaver I regarded a graveyard as a sacred place, and scarcely
dared to let my little feet fall for fear they might weigh too heavily
on the sainted dead below. 'Sainted dead!' Now that is a good one, too!
Well, perhaps familiarity does breed contempt. If you will excuse me for
mentioning it, my pipe is out,” remarked the ghost rather abruptly. The
young man filled it, and at the same time the thought intruded itself
into his mind that the ghost had said “My pipe.” The ghost took it
gracefully and after a couple of puffs said:
“If you like, we will walk around a little while I smoke this last pipe,
for I shall soon have sights to show you, as well as things to tell, and
must hurry before we begin the carnival.”
“Begin what?” asked the young man a little nervously.
“Well, we have a sort of convention of all the ghosts of this city and
some delegations from other places, some from quite a distance, I
believe. We are to have a dance after some speech-making and a banquet.
There will also be some general amusements such as are permitted in good
society. After that we do our penance—that is some regard it in that
light, but I do not for it makes the stone lie heavy over my head.”
As the Sociable Ghost said that he waved his hand indefinitely and stood
up on his skeleton feet and prepared to walk.
“As we go along I will tell you many things that never came to your
knowledge, and they may be of service to you in after life. If I had
known all that I am going to show you and tell you tonight before I
died, I might have done some things and not done others, and so
shortened my probation a good while. I then would never have been stuck
under this lying stone.”
In the meantime the number of ghosts grew larger so rapidly that it
seemed there would soon be room for no more. The ghost said:
“The most of the ghosts that you see here tonight above ground are
invited guests, and they come because the march of civilization as you
call it, has left them no place where they might hold a reunion of their
own, for it is only in settled cemeteries that there can be such a
function as you shall see here tonight—that is if you wish to remain.”
The newspaper man hastily signified that he would indeed like to be
present at such a function. Up to the present time in his career as a
reporter he had never flinched from anything in the way of sight-seeing,
and after having witnessed so much that was strange and hazardous he was
not going to flinch now. The ghost continued:
“The whole place is honeycombed with vaults which we can at will
transform into a place befitting the occasion. This is done by means of
certain powers given us, but before I go on I wish you to take
particular notice of my headstone. Why, I will tell you later. I know
all the ghosts belonging to this place and many more, and whatever I may
say about them will be truthful history and no one will say that I have
ever belied him.”
The young man hastened to remark that he was sure of that, adding that
he had always heard of the chivalric manner in which the men of the past
generations spoke of others, and especially he admired the reverence
which they showed towards all women, which was very beautiful.
A strange, crackling laugh was the answer to this. It sent the cold
chills galloping up and down the reporter's spine. It also checked any
further expression of his admiration of bygone manners.
“Young man, you are positively refreshing! We did regard all women
except our own and the ugly ones with the greatest consideration. That
has been the rule since the world began, and will be unto the end. But
to resume. Look now at my headstone. I was a rich man in my day and time
and had every reason to expect a fine monument with a weeping willow on
it or at least a cherub, and a nice big slab. Just see what I got! It
reminds me of one Christmas morning when after I had been extra good for
three months hoping to get a bright red sled, I found a copy of Sanford
and Merton in my stocking. I wonder I didn’t turn out to be a pirate!
Maybe I didn’t go out behind the barn and tear the thing up, and lie
like a little imp when they found out the book was gone. Since then I
made it a point to lick every man by the name of Sanford or Merton that
I ever met. Fool names, both of them.”
“I don’t blame you a bit,” said the young man with spirit, as the
remembrance of much the same experience flitted across his mind. The
Sociable Ghost continued:
“Pardon me for interrupting—I am a little out of practice in telling a
story. To take up the thread of my narrative. Here you see a measly
little slab of red sandstone, and no sign of the little cherub that sits
up aloft watching out for the safety of poor Jack. I was a captain and
commanded my own ship. She was as fine a vessel as ever rode out a gale.
I loved every timber in her hull and every rope on the rigging and every
spar and mast and sail as women love their young ones.”
“I can quite understand that,” assented the young man.
“Well, my ship made me a rich man. My relict, to offset the strict
economy that she showed in the matter of stone, had a lot of stuff about
my noble qualities and my pious—and all that. So much indeed, that not
half shows above ground. All of this makes me just so much work and
dirty work. Digging down in it without implements! You may see where it
says that I sailed to Liverpool, and so I did, once or twice, but the
most of my voyages were to the West Indies and to Africa. I brought
cargoes of rum and molasses for the merchants who were in the business
here then, and who were not ashamed of working in their own warehouses,
and whose descendants today put on many grand airs. They talk about
their ancestors, as though they had been of some superior clay. I hate
airs, and always did. Nine out of ten of these old merchants dealt in
either slaves or rum. The slaves came from the coast of Africa. I
brought them for the account of these people whose descendants put on
the airs. I suppose from the legend on my headstone if I had left any
descendants they would have put on quite as many airs. I am glad I did
not. As I said, I hate airs.”
“I think any right-feeling person does,” hazarded the reporter, who was a
little in doubt as to the outcome of this conversation.
“I held my wife so close in money matters,” continued the ghost
reminiscently, “being thrifty, and looking forward to the time when I
should be able to stay on shore, that I never let her know how much I
had. Later, when she got control of all my earnings she had so profited
by my example and teachings that—well, you see what a headstone she gave
me. I had done many things for that money—things that I now wish that I
had not done. I taught her economy and by George! when she had a chance
to pay me in my own coin, she did it and she did it well. Just look at
that miserable chunk of old sandstone all covered with a lot of da—I
mean a lot of untruthful stuff that will keep me at it I don’t know how
many years yet. If she had known she could not have revenged herself on
me worse. She gave all my clothes and a puncheon of good rum to the fool
sculptor, and I am just waiting for him to come down here. If he ever
does, I won’t do a thing to him but make him think he mistook his
vocation and ought to have been a boiler maker and stayed safely in one
of his iron-clad boilers.”
As the angry ghost delivered himself of this speech, he somehow took on
such a fierce expression, shown more in attitude than feature—since he
had no features—that the young man was sincerely glad that he had not
been guilty of carving the objectionable stuff on the fast crumbling
stone. As they walked along the ghost continued:
“Now, take notice that this stone has all the epitaph rubbed out. The
name only remains, and that proves that he was a pretty good sort. Here
is another where the epitaph is all gone except the date. Now that is a
good start, isn’t it?”
The young man murmured something about it seeming so, though he was
entirely in the dark about it. Still he knew enough to keep still and
let the ghost tell his story in his own way and in his own time. Many a
time he had managed to secure a fine story for his paper from someone
who had declared that he had nothing to say by judiciously keeping
silence, curbing his curiosity and inquisitiveness, and speaking only
when absolutely necessary. He began to feel that he was going to get
something tonight not often given to mortals, and he mentally arranged
the headlines of the story, for of course he would sell it. Every other
experience save one had been made to yield him so many dollars, and it
was natural that this strange meeting should appeal to him only as a
scoop beyond the power of any mortal to equal. So he discreetly awaited
the pleasure of his ghostly companion.
He wondered if the pebbles hurt the ghost’s feet. He felt a little
delicate about mentioning it, particularly as he could have proposed no
remedy even if the pebbles did hurt. Soon the ghost stopped by a rather
small headstone, and in a reminiscent manner said, between the delicious
whiffs of smoke:
“I well remember when the fashion for these cherubs went out and fancy
monuments with weeping willows on them came in. I had not been dead then
very long, and I was wondering which I would get and thinking what a
luminous old gump I was not to have made some provision for just such a
contingency. By dying suddenly my widow had things her own way, and a
pretty mess she has made of it as you see. Well; cherubs went out and
weeping women in weeds standing over funeral urns took their places. I
had thought that the new ones looked more dignified and were superior,
but since then I have come to see these cherubs as they are. Where there
are cherubs there is not much epitaph. Have you ever seen these cherubs?
No? Well come then, and take a good look at them for they are worth the
trouble. Some of them will fill you with envy to think you cannot have
one right away to watch over your slumber—I don’t think,”
This last was said with an indescribably waggish leer, and the reporter
began to think he was on the right road to a new experience and that
this man who had been so long dead still could see the humorous side of
it all, and that would certainly be from a new viewpoint.
They walked along until they came to one part of the cemetery where
there seemed to have been an epidemic of headstones with cherubs on
them. The ghost stopped before one of them and said:
“Just take a look at this cherub and see the mouth—or rather where the
mouth once was—and notice how it is all worn away, that is if the
sculptor did not die before he had finished his work. Here is another
where the mouth is half gone, and the expression is half a mocking smile
on one side and nothing at all on the other. Some have faces round and
others have long ones; some smile and others have the lips drawn down
almost to the chin in a lugubrious line each side of the face. Just
notice this one! The shape of the face is like that of a Bartlett pear
with the big end down, and around the head is what the artist fondly
believed to be a halo of glory; but it looks more like a bunch of oakum
tied to a ruffled nightcap. The oakum is supposed to represent the
living flame of sacred fire. And just catch onto the wings! And note the
general expression! These things were much admired in those days, and
were considered the highest form of expression of poetic thought. I
think I even complained just now that none had been put on my headstone,
but after all I’m blamed—no blessed glad of it for they are silly and
they do grate on my sense of the fitness of things, and they might after
all interfere with my passport. Oh, yes; I will tell you about that
later. Just now I want to show you around a little, for probably you
will never again have an opportunity like this.”
Here the reporter caused a slight interruption in the conversation by
handing the ghost the flask with a quiet grace which completely
captivated his heart, that is, the ghost of a heart. The ghost took a
few swallows and with a Chesterfieldian bow returned it to the young man
and then continued his running commentaries on the headstones.
“Now we come to a new departure in cherubs. You see this one is not very
well supplied with flesh, and is cut to represent a skeleton’s head. I
have noticed in many churchyards that it is considered quite the thing
to preach sermons to the living on the mutability of human affairs, and
therefore these things are put on the stones. I think the most of them
are put there out of spite because the person down below had to die. I
know quite a number of ghosts who have told me that they left
instructions for their own epitaphs. So you see the ghosts get some
comfort out of the gruesome warnings, but I doubt that anyone living was
ever scared into repentance by them. I know one old fellow who gets so
mad every time he hears people up above read his epitaph and laugh at
the time-honored words of ‘As I am now, so you must be; prepare for
death and follow me—’”
Here the reporter could not restrain his tongue and he asked if it were
possible for the dead lying in their graves to really hear, and know
what was passing. The ghost replied:
“Oh, yes; we know all that goes on above ground, that is if it interests
us enough to make us care to take the trouble to learn. We each find out
what we most care about, much as you who are not dead do, and we talk it
over at our hour of release.”
“And that I suppose is between the hours of twelve and one?”
“My young friend, you are behind the age. There was a time when people
believed that ghosts could walk only at the hour you mention, but there
is one night when we can walk from sunset to one o’clock, which you see
brings us into another day. We can walk, run, dance or do anything we
like, within certain limitations. You have happened here on the only
night in the year when we can do this. We have been going the rounds
below ever since the sun went down and now we are coming up as you see.
We leave our coffins and go about—and in short—you shall see it all
tonight.”
Here the ghost gave a sniff of disgust and anger, and pointing at a
headstone, said:
“Now, just look at that! They have gone and ‘restored’ that headstone
and had all that fulsome epitaph recut in it. And, they thought they were
doing a meritorious action, and that will give that poor fellow no end
of trouble to get it out again. And, he cannot get his passport until he
does. And here is another similar case. See this stone? Well, only today
the descendants of this man—take notice that I say who has slept, for he
is wide awake enough now and hopping mad—came and gave orders that the
inscription be restored. Poor fellow! He has been at that trying to
scrub it out ever since 1796. It seems that some of the families who have
so little to be proud of in this generation try to make it up by piling
more misery on their dead ancestors, just to show that they had
ancestors with such very flattering records. Bah!”
“He must be rather old?” hazarded the reporter with a desire to learn
something besides the opinion of the ghost regarding the inscriptions,
whereupon the ghost turned sharply around and said with some little show
of asperity:
“He was only about forty and he is the same now. Ghosts cannot grow
older, for there is nothing for them to grow with. Here is the grave of
Alexander Hamilton. Later I shall show you what he looks like now.”
Saying this the ghost seemed to be absorbed in reflection for a few
moments. Suddenly he spoke:
“What a pity that you have no more whiskey. There are several persons
here tonight who would so enjoy a good snifter. The worst feature about
our banquets is that all our food and drink are as unsubstantial as we
are.”
“I could go across the way and get some, if you will wait for me,” said
the young man eagerly, for it occurred to him that he would like to see
the effect of a generous allowance of real whiskey on the ghosts, and
there were apparently legions of them now strolling around among the
graves and through the church.
“Never mind for this time,” said the ghost. “I have had all that is good
for me, and I always knew when I had enough. Besides, I would like to
take a rise out of some of these fellows tonight. You see, it is a great
thing for one so long dead to have any friends left alive anyhow and
above all one who knows enough to bring any creature comforts like the
pipe and whiskey.”
The young man bowed, and said no more on that subject, but he began to
think that this ghost was entirely too prolix.
“Notice, my young friend,” said the ghost, confidentially, “as they
strolled along toward the south side of the churchyard; “all these
stones are set facing the sunrising. Now, some might think this was done
on account of the formation of the ground, but it is not so, for it
would have been just as easy to have faced them all south, north, east
or west. This is simply the last lingering remains of the old heathen
custom and belief that the rising sun represents the resurrection of the
dead. The ancients also believed in pouring out drink offerings and
libations, and, my friend, they were nearer right than we are with all
our boasted civilization. Nothing can be of benefit to the dead, unless
it is spirits which are ethereal in themselves, and smoke which is
evanescent, and almost intangible. I assure you there are times when we
could appreciate a glass of good rum. That being a spirit in itself, we
assimilate it easily and enjoy it thoroughly. But our civilization does
not believe in offering libations to the dead, more's the pity. I knew
an old heathen once who had been buried hundreds of years, and he used
to make us all as mad as hops when he told us how his descendants, as is
the custom there, came regularly to his grave and poured out good
spirits. By George! It almost made me wish that I had been one myself.”
After that sentiment forcibly expressed, the couple walked along in
silence for a short distance, and the ghost stubbed his toe against the
slab covering the Barclay vault. This bore the date of 1762 in
measurably clear letters. The good-natured ghost seemed suddenly changed
in regard to the mildness of his disposition, as he hopped around on one
bony foot and said things, some of them sounding like a word beginning
with a big D and ending with a little n. The newspaper man bowed his
head over the tomb of brave Lawrence, and had a severe coughing fit to
cover up his unholy amusement, and whether it was that the ghost was too
much occupied in rubbing his toe, or whether he really did not see it,
this danger passed, and the ghost turned and limped toward the front of
the church and across the porch. As he did so, he said:
“Drat that toe! I'm sure I broke it off”
“Drat that toe! I nearly put it out of joint! I despise airs anyhow, and
folks that think themselves too good to have just plain graves, and go
and dig vaults and leave the slabs lying right in one’s path. If I had
them aboard my ship I'd fix them. I'd stow them so close that when they
got out they would think that a six-foot grave was an extended plain or
a rolling prairie. I am afraid I shall have to tie that toe on, for I am
sure it must be loose.”
“Can I be of any assistance?” asked the reporter.
“Nah, you can’t. Excuse me if I am short, but the damn thing hurts.”
“I had an impression that after one is dead there could be no more
bodily pain—that all suffering of the body is over,” hazarded the
newspaper man.
“Well, get rid of that impression in short order,” said the ghost as he
sat down on the edge of the porch and struggled to tear off a piece of
his shroud to tie up his toe. “We can suffer as long as there is
anything material of us left to suffer, and also mentally as long as
things go wrong that we left behind us when we died. Zounds! How that
toe hurts!”
The young man expressed his sympathy so warmly that that and perhaps
somewhat less of pain calmed the ghost so that he took up his
interrupted conversation.
“If you use your eyes, young man, you may see here the present homes of
many persons who have made the history of New York; yes, even of
America. Many of the names are known in every household in the land, and
streets have been named for most of them. Among them you will find the
names of the founders of the old families, though to be sure, when I
come to think of it, many of them have long since received their
passports. You therefore will not see them tonight. But you may see some
of the Van Dams, Kissams, Ludlows, Moores, Vestrys, Goelets, Desbrosses,
Duanes, Worths, Lispenards, Jays, Hulls, Jones, Dominicks, Bleeckers, de
Peysters, Murrays, Chambers, Watts, Kings, Munroes, Leroys and a whole
lot more. I can’t remember them all just now. But, a man has got to be
something before he gets a street named after him. Some of the old
members of these families were not so rich as their descendants are
today. There were no millionaires in my time in New York.”