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.

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.