THE PRINCESS FROM EGYPT
While the polished ghost was relating his varied experiences, the women
were talking, and the young man found that his thoughts wandered as he
noticed a couple of articulated skeletons. He wondered if their
experience would not be worth an effort, and was trying to think up some
plan by which he could get them to talk, but before he could do so a
man, on the other side of the woman who hated cooking, said solemnly:
“Now, maybe your folks had dyspepsia. That excuses much, and some folks
that are not really nagging by nature get so by their sufferings. Now, I
knew a fellow, and he was something awful. Nobody couldn't do nothing to
pacify him after he had had his dinner, and at last it got so that
smoking injured his vitals and his victuals done him no good.”
“Did he pine away and die slow or go off all of a sudden at the end, as
it were?” asked the old lady sympathetically.
“Well, I disremember, for I was in California that year and when I came
back he was gone.”
The young reporter thought this was a good time to try to learn what
death really meant, and so he chose out a ghost whose frontal
development was such as to give the appearance of great intellectuality,
and said modestly:
“Sir, I hope you will not take it amiss if I ask you a few questions—”
“Fire away!” replied the ghost.
This unexpected answer quite took his breath away, but he managed to
keep a sober face and asked:
“I wish very much to know how a man feels when he knows that he is
drawing his last breath, when in short, he knows he is dying. If it is
not asking too much I should like to have as many of you as are willing
to tell me, each his individual experience.” One thoughtful-looking man
waited a moment and as nobody else took up the question he said:
“I think few of us are conscious when the last moment comes. We have all
probably been so ill that there was a complete blank, and where by
accident or any mortal injury it stands to reason that the shock and
hurt would render the person unconscious. You may not know that I was a
bishop in my life time. I thought that I had nothing to fear, and so as
I lay ill—I suffered a long time with the gout—the usual result of
eating and drinking—at last it went to the stomach and I died. Before
departing, I called my weeping friends and told them that the Lord had
called me and I was ready to go. I posed as a martyr and angel of grace,
and my deathbed farewell was spoken of as edifying. I really believed I
was almost a saint, and it was for a long time a matter of surprise to
me to discover that I was not wafted to immediate glory. I had yet to
learn that from him to whom much shall be given much shall be required.
And here I am, the least among you all.”
Another ghost took up the subject and said:
“The most of you here will think it queer, but when I was drawing my last
breath I knew it, and my principal feeling was anger that now one of my
neighbors would get my favorite horse. He had long tried to buy it, and
I would not sell, but what could my widow do with that horse when I was
dead? After that there was a few seconds of blank and I felt myself
drawn out of my own body and in another moment I was standing looking at
myself. It certainly was a strange experience, and I am glad it is all
over.
“I have talked with many ghosts and they all agree that death itself is
not so dreadful. It is like going from a light room into a dark one and
no one knows what is there. I find that almost every one has felt the
same fear of the unknown, but it is after all so small a change. Many
have a feeling as if they were falling a great distance to a profound
depth in the darkness, but so far I have never found one who was really
afraid of dying. It was more like the thought of the plunge into an icy
bath. Sickness and physical suffering have a tendency to deaden the
senses. And death itself is not so much of a change as we are prone to
regard it. The way I now look at it is that it is simply one of the
systematic changes made from time to time, from one sphere of existence
to another, according to the great eternal plan toward a better kind of
man. I used to wonder if this creature here who ravages and eats
everybody else, and who is altogether unworthy and vicious and selfish
was the best there could be, but now that I have an inkling into the
future existence, I believe that we are but atoms in one great plan, and
as worlds have been formed in their perfection, so will man stand out at
last as the finished being he is intended to be, in the right time as
grain is ripened.”
The bishop bowed his head in assent to this, and that set the reporter
to thinking about the great agnostic Ingersoll. He asked the company at
large if they could tell him if Col. Robert Ingersoll were present. The
whole company waited for the bishop to answer this question as though he
were the proper one to do so. He spoke at last; but as if he would have
preferred to waive the question:
“No, Mr. Ingersoll is not here. He got his passport the same day he
died.”
“I—I—thought he believed—or didn’t believe—I really do not know how to
express it—” stammered the young man in his excitement.
“Young man,” said the bishop impressively, “it is not what a man
believes, or thinks he believes, while on earth, that gains heaven, but
what he does.”
All the ghosts clapped their hands and shouted, “Hear, hear.” The young
man found food for the thought in the fact just told him. He made a
resolution to become acquainted with the words of the man who had
received his passport the same day he died. And, moreover, he intended
to follow them.
There was a ghost who up to now had taken no part in the conversation,
and he suddenly fixed the newspaper man with a compelling glance and
said, slowly and impressively:
“It seems to me that no one has exactly answered the question about the
phenomenon of death, which is in reality no greater than that of birth.
We see that, but even the wisest men of all time knows no more of the
life principle than the most ignorant. We know only that we enter this
world and quit it through the doors of pain. When my own final moment
came, I knew it and braced myself so that if ever I should be able to
tell those still of the world all the sensations I experienced I would
do so. If this is my opportunity I am glad of it.
“In the first place, I was a strong man and nothing but the pneumonia
ever seemed to get a hold on me. I was ill about a week, and they all
thought I was getting better, and for that reason I refused to take any
more medicine, though really that would have made no difference anyway,
for my time had come.
“Suddenly I felt a strange sensation, as if someone were pouring cold
water into my lungs, and in a few minutes—perhaps seconds—my lungs were
full of water. I was drowning just as much as if I had fallen into the
water. I held my breath for a moment, and when I attempted to breathe it
was impossible to do so. I had a moment of dizziness, and after that I
saw everything about me quite clearly, and I opened my eyes twice more.
Then I felt that if I could only get the water out of my lungs I would
be all right. With one last effort I turned over in bed and tried to let
the water run out, but it was useless, and I said to myself that the
only thing was to get out of my body, for I felt stifling and knew that
if I did not breathe I should succumb. The struggle for breath continued
and I suddenly let go and fell free from my body, and it was quite ten
minutes before I realized that the relief I experienced was because I
was dead. At least, so far as the life I had left was concerned.
“When I did realize it I think my principal sentiment was anger at
myself for my foolishness in trying to get loose from my own body. Death
means to my mind simply that the time allotted to you and your little
needs in this universe has expired, and you must go to the next, which
is this existence where we have not yet been purified of our earthly
dross. I may add a few more words, though they are only thoughts of my
own, based on what I have seen and been told. I believe that all women
who die in motherhood, sailors who are drowned at sea, all who have
lived pure and honest lives, all the oppressed of all peoples, all
little children and many grown persons who never saw or even heard of a
church, are in some way and for reasons beyond our understanding, given
their passports at once. Perhaps the Master who knows the heart's
innermost thoughts knows that—well—I can only say that I wish that all
people know what our bishop has just said: ‘It is not so much what a man
believes as what he does that wins heaven for him.’”
At this moment a tall ghost arose at the end of the principal table,
looked around with a pompous air and in the attitude of a Sunday-school
superintendent, addressing the unfortunate children, said in a clear,
strong voice:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have gathered here tonight in accordance with
our privilege and in the performance of our duty, and we have banqueted
on the choicest viands.”
Here one ghost was heard to mutter that he didn’t give shucks for all
their choicest viands, and he would prefer any day in the year a good
dish of baked beans or bean soup to all their boned turkey and pâté de
foie gras, and as for the highfalutin sweets he had rather have a mince
or pumpkin pie.” There were some gentle murmurs of approval at this
declaration of faith, but the speaker turned severe eyes upon the
grumblers, whereat they subsided. The tall ghost continued his speech:
“We will now propose a toast to the ladies, and I wish to include our
guest of honor, the Princess Shep, from Egypt. This noble lady has left
her sarcophagus at the Museum of Art for this occasion, and it is our
desire that she be installed in the seat of honor at the head of this
table and afterward at the end of the hall where she can see the dancing
and hear the speeches, and also hear the epitaphs such as are put upon
our graves. This lady has been dead over five thousand years, and has
seen much in that time of which we are entirely ignorant. Permit me,
ladies and gentlemen, to present the Princess Shep, to whose most
marvelous state of preservation we must do honor.”
The Princess Shep.
At this point he led the Princess, who was greatly hampered by her
windings to a chair much higher than the others, and seated her there
with much ceremony, at the same time gallantly lifting one of the little
brown hands to his grinning mouth.
As soon as she was seated the master of ceremonies rapped sharply for
order, and then said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have several friends from Derby, Conn., and
part of this evening’s entertainment will consist of hearing them recite
their remarkable epitaphs, and so allow me to introduce the ladies
first. I have the honor of presenting Mrs. Desire Kimberly, relict of
Mr. Israel Kimberly, who exchanged this life for immortality August
21st, 1794, age 28.”
Saying this he took the hand of a small ghost, who arose to her feet,
and stood bashfully, like a child at school examinations. The tall ghost
said:
“Mrs. Kimberly will repeat her own epitaph, and I will say here that in
spite of its length—its very unusual length—she has managed nearly half
of it already.”
The lady began in a strident voice and repeated the verses, while the
reporter took surreptitious notes, holding his book under the table
cloth, for he felt just a little delicate about letting them know he was
among them taking notes, but on the other hand he knew that he could
never remember anything that had dates, or verses. He desired to be
absolutely correct about this epitaph, so he took down as she repeated:
“Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Desire Kimberly, who exchanged this life
for immortality, August 21st, 1794, age 28.”
As she said this one woman near the newspaper man said to the one on the
other side that she thought it entirely unnecessary for her to go over
all that rigmarole, as the gentleman had just said it. The other lady in
blissful ignorance of this byplay continued with her epitaph. The rest
was the poetry.
“Here she bids her friends adieu,
Some angel calls her to the spheres;
Our eyes the radiant saint pursue,
Through liquid telescope of tears.”
She sat down with murmurs of applause all around. The master of
ceremonies took his stand again and said while he waved his hand:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mrs. Betsy Pease, who departed this life
May ye 8, 1797, in ye 21st year of her age. Mrs. Betsy Pease was the wife
of Mr. Isaac Pease, daughter of Mr. Thaddeous Bald. Mrs. Pease, ladies
and gentlemen.”
The lady began her recital in a very sing-song voice:
“With pangs severe strangling in blood,
She soon became a lifeless clod;
The summons of her God she obeyed,
She closes life and ends her days.”
With a low courtesy, not altogether devoid of grace, she sat down,
evidently as much pleased as an elocutionist after she has recited
Curfew shall not ring tonight. The applause was fainter, but she
appeared satisfied. The master of ceremonies again stood up to introduce
Miss Mary Hunter, who died in 1782, aged 17. She arose to her feet, and
as she did so she seemed to stretch out like the gates to a ferry boat
until she reached her full height, which must have been at least six
feet. She had a harsh, rasping voice, and in a slow and impressive
manner she said:
“She is not here, ‘tis but a veil of clay
That molders into dust beneath this stone;
Mary herself in realms of fadeless glory
Has put a robe of fadeless glory on.
This monumental urn is not designed
To tell of beauties withering in the tomb,
Her brightest charms were centered in her mind
Which still prevail and will forever bloom.
Her conscious soul
Allied to angels hails the glorious change,
And joins the blest societies above
In all the freshness of immortal love.
There is a world of bliss hereafter, else
Why are the bad above, the good beneath
The green grass of the grave?”
This whole performance was so irresistibly comical that the unfortunate
young man had such a sudden fit of strangling that two of the most
muscular ghosts smote him on the back until he was in danger of having
his spinal column dislocated, while the beauteous Mary sat down with an
air of pride, which was quite natural when one considered the difficulty
under which she labored. As she sat down she seemed to double up like a
jackknife or a two-foot rule. There were murmurs of commiseration over
the length of this epitaph, and the reporter thought to himself that it
was rather a queer idea to contrast the robes of fadeless glory with the
few rotting remnants of her cerements.
Scarcely had she taken her seat when a woman stood up, and as if she
feared she would not get a chance to recite her effusion, she began and
rattled it off in one string without punctuation, though to be sure this
seemed to be a common fault with these ladies. She said:
“Mary Jane Smith, died Feb. 1st, 1752, age 43. Affliction sore long time
she bore, Physician's art was vain, Till God did please that death
should seize And ease me of my pain. Farewell my husband and my
children, Farewell to all on earth, I hope to meet you all in heaven,
Where parting is no more.”
Mrs. Smith's ghost sat down in the consciousness of having taken time by
the forelock and that now she was sure that no one could defraud her of
her chance to recite the atrocity which she seemed to think so worthy of
admiration. The master of ceremonies was evidently put out to think that
anyone should take liberties with his program, so that he grew rattled
a little and instead of continuing to call upon the rest of the ladies
he hurriedly said:
“If Mr. John Beers is here will he please rise and tell us what they put
on his gravestone?”
A very decrepit old man stood up after several trials to do so and in a
weak and quavering voice repeated:
“John Beers, a Revolutionary pensioner, died April 22, aged 45. He fell
as falls the oak with years, Which storms have beat upon, Upon his grave
we shed our tears, To heaven we hope he's gone.”
As this feeble old man sat down it seemed to the young man that it was a
little hard on the old man’s memory that they had left his ultimate
destination in doubt. Still, as the old man made no objection no one
else had any right to complain. The old man received quite an ovation.
As he subsided the master of ceremonies said:
“Is Mr. Peleg Eddy here? I am sorry to say that I have never had the
pleasure of meeting Mr. Eddy, so I cannot tell which one of our invited
guests he is.”
He looked around three or four times, and again asked for the gentleman
from out of town. Finally a gloomy-looking little man stood up with a
very bad grace. He could not have been more than five feet tall in life
and was now considerably less. He repeated:
“Peleg Eddy and his wife,
They sat out in early life.
They turned about each other's hearts,
But God doth call and they must part.
'Tis hard to part and leave behind
A tender wife and child so kind.
With anxious care she watched his bed,
And kept cold towels on his head,
But all in vain, for God doth send
And call away her bosom friend.
To his dear mother standing by,
Saying, 'Dear mother, prepare to die,
The heavens in glory is full in view,'
He soon did bid this world a long adieu.
A few hours after his senses fled,
And now he sleeps among the dead;
Sleep on, sleep on, and take thy rest,
God called thee home we all thought best.”
As this unfortunate man, whose family had laid this heavy load on him,
sat down there were murmurs of condolence all around, and the newspaper
man asked if he would permit him to ask where he was buried, whereupon
he glared in the most ferocious manner at the interloper, while his bony
fists clenched ominously:
“You may ask if you like, but I shall not answer. Do you think it is not
enough to have to lie under that stuff without letting all the
rubberneckers in the country know where it is that they may come and
make fun of it?”
The young man disclaimed any such intention, and said that he regretted
having asked, and apologized so abjectly that at last the poor ghost
unbent a little and volunteered the information that the widow who had
been such a ministering angel with her cold towels had wedded again in
just one year, “and his name is Whipple, and I am just laying for him.
If ever I do find him I am going to pulverize him. He wrote that epitaph
and my wife thought it such a wonderful poetic effusion that she lost
her heart, and common sense. I wait year after year in hopes of meeting
him. Have you any idea how many centuries it will take to rub out all
that?”
The newspaper man told the unhappy ghost that there was no punishment
too great for a man guilty of such a pack of doggerel, and he meant it,
and made another mental note that he should leave strict orders that no
epitaph should be put over his resting place when he should be no more.
The master of ceremonies now stood up and announced:
“I have the honor to announce that Sergeant Benjamin Davis, who was in
the Civil War in the Seventh Regiment of Connecticut Volunteers is
here. He participated in sixteen battles and served four years. He will
now speak.”
The ghost of the young man stood up, and he wore the shreds of his
uniform, and so was the only ghost who did not wear what was left of his
shroud. He said modestly:
“Ben. F. Davis, a sergeant in the Seventh Connecticut Volunteers.
Participated in sixteen battles with conspicuous bravery and contracted
chronic—”
Here he was suddenly interrupted by the leader of society, who said with
great concern:
“Sir, do not forget that there are ladies present.”
“Who is this galoot? By what right do you assume, sir, that I was about
to insult these ladies? It is a good job for you that there are ladies
present. I would use you for a curry comb otherwise. Now, then, just you
close the doors of your face, as Job says. I contracted chronic
rheumatism and died of rheumatism of the heart. Have you any objections
to make to that?”
“No, not at all, only it was probably heart failure, instead of what you
say. It is not fashionable to have rheumatism of the heart now, for it
is dignified as heart failure. We have heart failure, and appendicitis,
and laryngitis—”
“Folks die of them just the same, don't they?”
“Yes: but it sounds so much more refined.”
The soldier boy looked at the man whose refinements were so much greater
than the occasion required from head to foot, and then said defiantly:
“I don’t see that you make any better looking ghost than the rest of us,
and for two cents I would smash that ugly skull of yours, or at least
reduce that very evident bump of self-esteem.”
At this juncture the master of ceremonies was struggling with an
overwhelming desire to laugh, for no one liked this man who always felt
it a bounden duty to find fault with everyone and everything. But, at
last he managed to rap for order and when the other ghosts had ceased
laughing at the leader's discomfiture, he said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, by some mischance I failed to see the name of a
lady from Derby, one whom we should all delight to honor, and I now ask
Mrs. Hannah Clark to rise and favor us with her epitaph. Mrs. Clark,
ladies and gentlemen.”
As he said this the old lady arose to her feet, and holding to the edge
of the table repeated in a weak and quavering voice:
“Hannah Clark, died September, 1801, aged 91. Her lineal descendants at
the time of her death were 333, viz.: 10 children, 62 grandchildren, 242
great-grandchildren and 19 great-great-grandchildren. During her long
life her company was the delight of her numerous friends and
acquaintances. Having performed the duties of life and being impressed
with the reality and importance of religion she died as she had lived,
satisfied and happy.”
As she said these words there came a strange and subtle change over her
seamed and wrinkled skull, and she seemed to be putting on some filmy
veil that softened all the outlines of the bones, and she said in a
voice that grew sweeter and stronger with every word:
“My dear friends, it is borne in upon me that my time has come to leave
all that belongs to this stage of existence and go where my Master calls
me. It has come very unexpectedly, for I had not hoped for my passport
for many long years yet. Adieu, adieu!”
Even as she spoke she was undergoing a change that was so wonderful that
the whole assemblage, including the reporter, watched her intently.
First, the bones of her skeleton grew misty and indefinite, and in their
places there gathered a soft, filmy, nebulous mass of floating
particles, and little by little they united into a misty, floating body,
and this in turn took the form of the dead woman’s face before decay had
touched it. The features were defined as those of a lovable old lady,
and flesh appeared to clothe the fleshless bones.
For a moment she looked at the people, and then with a smile of
ineffable sweetness she vanished into nothingness, the tender smile
seeming to remain even after all the rest had vanished. For several
minutes everything was still, with that strange stillness which
sometimes falls upon a whole community, without apparent reason, when
every sense is alert, though nothing tangible is seen. The young
newspaper man felt a lump rise in his throat, and two tears jumped
suddenly from his eyes and rolled unheeded down his cheeks as he thought
of the years of toil this woman had borne without thought or hope of
recompense, and now she was so signally blest. The sight laid one more
stone in the foundation of the resolves made this night as to his
future. That the occasion was a solemn one, the silence and evident awe
of the other ghosts was proof. Besides, the fading face was so
glorified, and wore such a beatific expression that no one who saw it
could doubt the fact that her season of penance was ended.
With a smile of ineffable sweetness she vanished.
Filled with these thoughts, and marveling at it all, the young man
scarcely knew that all the tables had disappeared, when he found himself
sitting alone on a chair in the middle of the immense room.
He hastily rose to his feet and started off to find the Sociable Ghost,
but he was nowhere to be seen, and so he entered into a conversation
with a man who had been sitting silently at the table, and asked him if
he could tell him how such a transformation had taken place and what had
become of the bones, or had he been the victim of an optical illusion?
The man replied:
“No one knows the hour of his release until it comes, and when it does,
all the bones and all other material parts fall into impalpable dust and
go to help build more worlds. From now on the spirit is free from all
hindrance, and it is to be supposed that it passes to a better sphere.
That is all we know about it. We all hope for the hour of release, but
only the Master can tell when we have earned the right.”
Probably the man would have said more on the subject, had not the ghost
of Peleg Eddy come along and stopped, saying angrily:
“Aha! I have found you at last! You are the idiot that wrote that
epitaph to weigh me down forever! And, you married my widow—”
“You ought to pardon me the first on account of the last.”
“You are a liar, sir—”
Peleg Eddy interrupted the conversation right here, for the other ghost
doubled up his fist and let it go, and it went in the direction of
Peleg’s head, and that not being on very strong, owing to the fact that
the bones were very small, the head rolled to the floor and on for some
little distance, while there was a general shout of laughter at the
mishap. Peleg ran after it and putting it under his arm for safety, said
in trembling tones:
“You had better take care, sir, and not arouse the sleeping lion. Don't
turn the tiger loose in me. I am afraid to say of what I am capable when
I am aroused fully.”
“Don't rouse the sleeping lion”
“Oh, don't be afraid to tell us, for nobody else is afraid, but I advise
you to go and take a nap, and if in that sweet slumber you even dream
that you can thrash me I shall know it, and I will give you one that will
last you a thousand years. I owe you one for dying anyhow, or I should
never have married your widow. She led me a dog's life, and I just feel
like taking it out of you.”
By this time all the ghosts were tired of a quarrel promising so little
real fight, and they sauntered off in different directions while the
young man, left alone, walked along toward the Egyptian.
As he walked along he heard two women talking and as the princess
happened to be the subject of their conversation he sauntered more
slowly so that he could hear what they were saying. The smaller one of
the two said:
“I don't see where her wonderful preservation comes in, for she is
nothing but a mummy anyhow. Anybody could be as stiff as she is if she
had been soaked in coal tar a year or so. And they dry them so that they
are nothing but a piece of tinder, and I am surprised that Mr.
Huntington should think her remarkable. I am sure she cannot show a curl
of real hair as soft and silky as it was when she was alive, like
someone that I know of.”
This caused the young man to notice the speaker more particularly, and
he saw that while she was small, there was still something about her
that made him think she had been a beauty in her lifetime, for the shape
and the outlines of her head and skeleton were certainly different from
those of most of the others. There was something of elegance in her
movements and more grace than one could mentally connect with a
skeleton. She held her head very much to one side and reminded him of
the girls he had read about in the old romances, “bending over her
tambour frame, with her eyes cast down modestly while her lovely eyes
were suffused with tears of sensibility.”
On one side of the head which was turned to the newspaper man there was
a long curl of silky brown hair. This she twisted constantly with her
bony fingers and smoothed with apparent affection, a sentiment which the
young man understood when, by an unfortunate movement she half turned
her head and he saw that there was not another spear of hair on her
whole skull. Between a desire to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of
her pretension, and pity for the little feminine vanity that made her
cling to her one poor lone curl, the young man retired into the shadows
made by the decorations, and that is how he happened to hear the
conversation of several lady ghosts.
As soon as the banquet was finished, the Egyptian princess had been
installed in her high chair, and she held audience with as many men as
could crowd around her, and so the women were in a measure left to
themselves. They gathered into groups and fell to discussing various
subjects. Some told of what they had been doing the evening before, when
they were abroad in their spiritual form only. One of them said sadly:
“I went to the place where my husband and I always loved to be. I
thought perhaps he might be there, for he promised me as I lay dying
that on every anniversary of my death he would go there. It was there
that we had become engaged, and we were so happy there—”
“Did he come?” asked she of the lone curl.
“Yes; he did come, but he brought another woman with him, and the very
things he used to say to me he said to her. He kissed her and told her
that he had never loved anyone as he loved her, for such love comes but
once in a lifetime. She is the fifth woman to whom I have heard him say
the same things. I wish he would at least seek some other place for his
foolishness, for you cannot imagine how foolish it seems to hear a man
make love to another woman. He wouldn't be my choice of a man anyhow if
I had my life to live over again. It will be a happy day when I get my
passport and can leave all these worries behind.”
Here was the question of passports again, and yet the newspaper man did
not know what it meant. He began to blame himself for remissness in his
duty, and to fear that he would find himself outside without having
learned it. So he made up his mind that he would ask his host about it
the first thing when he should find him again.
The second woman took up the conversation and said:
“Well, Mary, your lot is not so hard as mine. You had no little children
to leave. When I died I went to my old home and hovered over my little
children, knowing that they needed a mother’s care, and there sat
another woman beside the cradle, and it was she who answered when my
baby cried. It was the first time the baby spoke and she called that
woman mother.”
At this moment the girl with the curl, as the reporter called her, began
to complain again, but this time it was about the grave of Charlotte
Temple.
“Really it wearies me to see what a ridiculous fuss all the lovelorn
fools make about her grave. And, she got her passport long ago. Really I
think that is paying a premium on weakness. One would think she was the
only one to be disappointed in a man. Here come any number of silly
things every day and nearly always bring something to put on her slab,
which isn’t much, anyhow. Not a word of epitaph, nothing but her name.
“The only thing good about it is that someone hollowed out a place so
that birds can drink out of it. After a rain there may be some water
there, but it soon dries up, and others bring flower pots and bouquets
for poor Floyd to sweep away. I noticed tonight that there was a scrubby
little fish geranium in a dried up pot standing there and a most forlorn
little kitten was trying to find a few drops of water.”
The young man instantly resolved that he would find that poor little
kitten which, he felt sure, was the very one at which he had shied the
stone. His mother would not object, so having set his conscience at
rest, as so many of us do by promising to right a wrong—later on—he
found himself again listening when one of the other women took up the
conversation, and looking at the Egyptian, who still seemed to monopolize
the gentlemen ghosts to a most scandalous extent and remarked:
“I think a woman as black as that mummy ought not to be allowed here
among us. As to princesses of her time, they were no better than they
should be, and if history is correct, they went about in such a state as
to scandalize anybody. They certainly couldn't have been pretty with
those black faces. And I, for one, don’t think they should be set up for
miracles either.”
At this moment there passed a queer-looking woman ghost. Her back was
bad and her legs were queer, like those of poor little Jenny Wren, and
she had, in spite of her affliction, such a grand air of importance that
she was remarkable among all the ghosts. As she passed the girl with the
curl, she gave her head a toss as if she really intended an insult. As
soon as she had passed out of hearing, the girl with the curl turned to
the others and said:
“Did you see Mrs. Simon Mullinstalk? I imagine you will know her the next
time you do, for she is so proud of that name that she tries to project
her personality everywhere. Did you ever hear how she came by that
magnificent name?”
“No,” they all said in a chorus, “who is she, anyway?”
“Why she was an old maid, and her name was Susannah Skinks. She was the
only daughter of old Solon Skinks. He had a snug little fortune, but was
such a miser that they never had enough to eat. I have heard my mother
say that it was working beyond her strength while she was small that she
became as you see her. When her father died—her mother had died long
before—he gave her all he had, on the promise that while she lived she
would never marry anyone. She kept her promise, but when she lay upon
her deathbed—she was then forty-eight years old—she for some reason felt
that she did not wish to have her name and age go down to posterity on
her tombstone as an old maid. She unbosomed her feelings to her pastor.
He knew she had money and might remember the missionary work in which he
was interested, and advised her, saying that she was practically dead
now, and there could be no harm in making a deathbed marriage.
“They sent for the man whose name appealed to her. He was a hopeless
paralytic, and had to be brought to her. They were left alone while she
unfolded her plan to him. She wanted to be able to have 'Mrs.' on her
tombstone, and if he consented to marry her now, she would will him
everything she possessed. This just suited him, for the county had been
supporting him for a long time, and he felt his position keenly. Here
was a chance to suddenly become a man of importance, and from being a
pauper, he could also provide for his old mother. As the minister was
there and everything foreseen and provided for, the wedding was soon
over and notice of it sent to the local paper. The old mother was sent
for and Mr. Mullinstalk remained. Two days later she died. She had
designed what she wished to have put on her tombstone. But when the
sculptor went to carve the name, he somehow miscalculated the length of
the name and could get only as far as Mrs. Simon Mullinst—, and carried
the rest to a line below, but Simon seemed to think it was all right.”
“Did she give anything to the missionaries?” asked an old lady with
great interest.
“Not a penny, but she gave all her old clothes. That preacher was
engaged to be married at the time and after the wedding they went off to
some desolate place where the savages killed them. The cannibals were
merciful enough to grant their last request, and that was that they
should be boiled in the same kettle, and served up in the same dish, so
that people could say of them that ‘they were lovely in their lives and
in death were not divided,’”
“It must have been an intolerable blessing, when they loved each other
so. Poor critters! Well, they are having their reward, I hope.”
Just then the tall ghost came along and spoke to the lady of the long,
lone curl. He asked her if she would not like to take a turn, at the
same time lifting her small hand in his, with exceeding care so as not
to break any of the delicate bones. He said:
“My dear young lady, how glad I am of having the honor of seeing you
once more. It makes me regret that things are as they are here, yet I
find a balm for my hurt in the fact that there is no marrying, or giving
in marriage, for thus I am assured that no one else can claim you. We
can be friends until we get our passports, and possibly we shall be
permitted to maintain the same friendly relations beyond.”
At this delicate compliment, the maiden bowed her head and smiled, as
indeed she had to, having no means of doing anything else. So, when the
tall ghost offered his arm to take her around to see the decorations,
she managed so skillfully that she took his right arm so that he should
not see the bald side of her head. If he had seen it he could not have
made any objections since his own head was as bare of hair as a stone.
As they moved off the young man turned his attention again to the women
and their conversation. He heard one say:
“I do not belong here, for I am buried in old St. Luke's, and if it
hadn't been for the kindness of a friend I should have had nowhere to go
tonight. I really wish we could stay dead and not have to come out until
we are called for transfer. I never come out, but I am made to wish I
hadn't. You know they have taken our peaceful resting place and made a
public park of it, and that without being sure that we were all removed.
Those of us without relatives left were removed by the Trinity
Corporation, or at least that is what I was told. While they were moving
the bodies, I remembered a verse that was written by someone who must
have seen something like this. It runs:
“There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road is rough and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:
‘Rattle his bones over the stones,
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.’”
“Nobody seems to think that old bones can feel. What hurts me worst
though is where it said on my monument, for I had a rather nice one for
the period when I was buried, that ‘she died at the age of 21 in the
bloom of her youth and beauty, leaving her parents and her young husband
desolate.’ Yes; my young husband remained desolate just one year and a
day, and then he married again. But as long as they lived my parents
mourned for me. I tell you what, my dears, a man’s love for a woman
lasts just as long as she is there to make him comfortable, and no
longer. I saw him not long ago, and he is old and fat, bald and
toothless, and he chews tobacco. Since then I have been almost glad that
I am dead. I wish I could get my passport, but I suppose I have not
learned all the lessons the Master has set for me.”
“Do you believe that it is true that when we marry there is a truer
union than that between parents and children? You know that it says in
the Bible, ‘For this cause a man shall leave his father and his mother,
and they twain shall be one flesh.’”
Another woman who up to now had taken no part in the conversation spoke
in a resonant voice, and with a certain manner that betokened long
practice in public. She said impressively:
“Yes; we have all heard that, but I think the translators have got it
mixed, and it should not read shall, but will leave his father and
mother, for we know that he will do just as he likes and find a good
reason for anything he wants to do. And we do not need to be told how
long it takes him to forget the wife he declared he could not live
without. And we can calculate to the hour when he will remarry. The fact
of the matter is that man is an utterly selfish being. Women have been
expecting too much of men. They should be taught that women are not to
be made the playthings of an idle hour. Oh, if we could only advise our
earthly sisters! Let us form a union—a strong union—and make our
displeasure felt at this outrageous infidelity. I will be president,”
There were murmurs of various kinds, none of them very distinct, and
then the lady continued;
“All of you who are in favor of the movement hold up your hands.”
One large and still imposing woman ostentatiously folded her hands, and
several of the others followed her lead and kept their hands down. The
would-be president said:
“Madam, may I ask you if you have any personal objection to me?”
“None at all,” was the reply.
“Then I beg that you will reconsider your antagonistic attitude and
raise your hand with the rest. Or, if you have any objection, please
state it.”
“I'll be tail to no one’s kite, and don’t you forget it.”
This blunt reply caused three or four men who had unnoticed gathered
around, to break out into their queer crackling laughter, and this so
incensed the would-be president that she walked away in a most dignified
manner. The young man found that he had unconsciously formed the nucleus
of a group of men, and he felt glad of it, for there were several things
that he felt he must learn before the end of the evening. So as these
men seemed to him to be kindly disposed, he said to one of them:
“I could not help hearing the complaints of those ladies, and it would
give me the liveliest pleasure if I could learn something more of all
this reunion. And, so far as I could judge by my own short experience
and observation, women are quite as apt to remarry as men. I think they
are a little harsh in their judgment.”
“You are right, young man,” said a fine, intellectual-looking ghost,
“but there is something to be said on the other side. Women marry
oftener than men after being widowed. If anything is said they claim a
dozen reasons why it became a necessity. Being left alone and without
support, they have to marry. If they have money they need someone to
take care of it. Now I was married, and I assure you that had she died,
I should have gone to my grave mourning for her. She promised me on my
deathbed that she would not give any man even enough encouragement to
allow him to ask her hand. I died content, and felt sure that some time
we would be united in that better land. I willed her everything I had.
By George! She came to my grave one day with a bunch of flowers and
began to cry and tell me that she was lonely, and that she had seen a man
who could cheer her up, and asked my consent to her marriage with him.
Of course I could not speak to say no, and the artful minx took my
silence as a tacit consent. Then she called me all sorts of a noble and
generous man, and went off. The next day she came back with the silliest
looking chump you ever saw, and she said to me lying there helpless down
below: “Jim, you know that I promised you that I would never let any man
propose to me, so now to show you that I have kept my word, I ask you,
Reginald-Ethelbert, to be my husband.” I was cured of all my infatuation
for her as soon as I saw what kind of a man she thought so noble and so
grand. They are both old now, and if I had wanted revenge, I could have
had it, for they are about as well suited to each other as a cat and
dog. It is better not to ask any promises, for a woman will find some
way to get out of them, and it is still better not to regard wedlock as
an indissoluble tie, for death does dissolve it, and we have been told
that in Heaven there is no marrying or giving in marriage.”
This was a new and comforting idea for the young man, and he began to
feel that after all this life is short, and that it might not be long
before the foreign count would be no more to the girl he loved so
hopelessly than himself. Then he asked the ghost:
“Will you kindly tell me, sir, on what ground men and women meet in the
sphere where you all ultimately go?”
“There are many things which we who are still in this intermediate
existence do not know, but it is the general opinion that we shall meet
upon one platform of spiritual goodness, and be just friends.
"In life, if you think it over, there is nothing so sweet and worthy as
true friendship, and that obtains also in the world of spirits. There
we shall all be friends, true and faithful in the deepest meaning of the
word. We shall find the most exquisite pleasure in working for others,
and as we are devoted and self-sacrificing toward others, so will others
be to us, and in that way the peace and good will will so permeate all
that the whole atmosphere will be charged with the utmost delight.”
“According to that belief there will be no love making, and those who
believed in their love for each other will not feel the same kind of
sentiment in the other world?”
“My young friend, as you now understand it, there is no love. There are
on earth natural selections, or affinities, and there are personal
attractions, and there are other and less noble instincts; vanity,
interest, and a hundred other mental conditions which we bunch together
and call love. All of these, singly or collectively, are disappointing
from beginning to end. They are the cause of more crime and misery than
words can tell. Love, as we call it, is of this world, and is not
perfect. Eliminate the word love and put in its place pure and true
friendship, and we have heaven. Heaven, do you understand?”
“Some persons would prefer the world and the love that makes it turn
around,” said the newspaper man rather flippantly, yet at the same
moment he felt a great throb of pain as the vision of the beautiful girl
he so hopelessly loved flashed through his mind. The ghost, with a
gentle bend of his head, said:
“You are thinking of Miss _____, and being also of the earth my words
fall upon impatient ears, but there will come a day when all earthly
desire shall have faded from your mind and heart, you will find that a
pure and sweet friendship is far more satisfying than any present love
could be. So keep your heart pure and be true to yourself, and your time
of probation will be short. She will be there before you, and when your
heart is laid bare before her—”
“But I said nothing about any young lady,” said the young man, half
frightened as he suddenly remembered that fact.
“I know you did not,” replied the ghost, “We do not require that anyone
should speak, though we do talk to each other, but that is more from
force of habit than necessity. And, especially where the theme is one of
deep import, one uplifting in its subject, we simply sense what another
would say.”
“Sir,” said the reporter, “I should be glad of any information that you
can conscientiously give me about life after death and the future
existence.”
“It is a natural sentiment, but I fear there is little left for you to
know. You have been permitted to penetrate to the abode of the dead and
to behold all there is to see. You find that men and women can come out
of their coffins, walk about and converse, eat and drink, and later you
may see them at their penance. You have probably noticed that they are
all possessed of a certain resemblance to what they were in life—that
is, they have their bony structure still, and something of their
personality, and much of their disposition. So long as the bones do not
decay they must stay under the conditions as you see them. The decay of
the bones seems to be regulated by the character of the owner of them,
and the use he made of them in his lifetime. So long as there is any of
the material part of the body left the spirit is chained to it, though
it may leave it for a time when the spiritual longing is stronger than
the material in the bones. When we get our passports the whole
dissolves, and we here long for that consummation. Ah, much more than I
can tell you.”