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.
Master sees that we are sufficiently purified from earthly dross to
enter into a higher sphere, where the most of our earthly sins and
sorrows are forgotten. We are allowed to forget as fast as we have
earned forgiveness. But, as I said, there are no reporters here but you,
and it is understood that you are not to waste your time in writing out
a report. Nobody would believe it if you did. Gee! I wonder what the
editor of the paper up the street would say if you handed in your report
of what you have seen to-night?”
The young man gave a short hysterical laugh as he replied:
“He would say, ‘Go to the cashier and get what is coming to you. We
publish nothing but facts.’”
Two or three of the ghosts who had heard this began to laugh derisively,
and one or two made remarks not altogether to the credit of the editor's
perspicacity, and there would doubtless have been more discussion had
not the master of ceremonies rapped sharply for order, and said:
“All present are invited to take part in this convention which has been
convened for the purpose of endeavoring to right several wrongs and to
elect a master of ceremonies for next year. I think I am entitled to
some repose. In fact I could not be induced to serve another year in
this capacity.”
“I wonder if anyone asked him to?” whispered one ghost to another. The
reporter looked around to see the speaker, forgetting that he would not
know anyhow. His surprise was great to observe that all the women ghosts
were seated in a gallery that he had not noticed before.
The women were talking with animation among themselves and paid scant
attention to the proceedings below. They grew so animated once or twice
talking of the fashions which women still of the world were wearing, and
telling of the clothes they used to have that they had to be called to
order twice. The master of ceremonies rapped for order, and said:
“I move that Mr. Alexander Hamilton be invited to act as chairman for
this meeting.”
The bishop immediately stood up, saying angrily:
“I object! Mr. Hamilton has been chairman often enough. I move that some
one else has a chance this generation. Besides we want new blood, new
ideas.”
“That lets you out, then,” said a ghost down the aisle.
The bishop was too angry to answer, and sat down indignantly. Another
ghost said:
“What is the matter with the general? I see our fighting general here,
and I should like to remark that Mr. Hamilton is not the only peach upon
the bough. If the general is too modest I move that the chairman should
be some one who has suffered by the wrongs we are trying to have
righted. Mr. Hamilton is sure that he will never be removed from here,
or if he is it will be with befitting ceremonies, and he cannot be
expected to feel as do those who have been moved around until they have
no fixed abode, and in consequence are called tramp ghosts. Of course
the general will always be honored in death as he was in life, still I
think he ought to be our chairman.”
All eyes, or rather, heads were turned toward a medium-sized ghost who
stood up, and it was easy to recognize the military bearing as he
replied:
“Gentlemen” (for the whole audience had applauded his name), “I am proud
to know that you like me well enough to choose me, but I am not used to
this kind of fighting. Anything else that I can do I shall be pleased to
do.”
Saying this he sat down and so decided was his movement that no one
thought of asking him to reconsider.
Everybody cheered him except the women, who were vexed that they had
been obliged to go upstairs. The master of ceremonies grew desperate
and said:
“We will ask Mr. Van Der Dam to preside, with the approbation of the
company.”
The company for the most part appeared satisfied, though one or two said
something about not liking to have a tramp ghost put above them. He took
his place modestly and began:
“Friends and fellow citizens; I am here before you to see if some way
cannot be devised to let the people above ground know our wrongs, and
ask them to fix it so that every cemetery shall be made enduring and
that no matter what are the demands of grasping people, these places
shall be kept inviolate, and devoted sacredly to their purpose, or, if
that cannot be done, then let us all be cremated, not only those who may
die, but also those who lie in places that may become necessary to the
living. What I mean is that when any old cemetery is to be moved, let
them cremate the bones instead of throwing them into some filthy old
cart all in a heap. We have all known what one can suffer under this
sort of treatment. It is time that it was stopped. Of what use is all
our boasted civilization if the dead are obliged to wander around
without coffins? Yes, and half of them without more than half their
bones. No one seems to care if they get mixed up and lost, or what
becomes of them. Something ought to be done. I have no more to say.
Saying that he took his seat, and all the ghosts applauded him, though
one or two exchanged opinions in whispers, saying that though what he
had said was true it wasn’t practical. Another ghost had just risen to
his feet and opened his jaws—all the ghosts just wagged their jaws when
they spoke—and said Fellow—when there was a sound of a silvery bell in
the distance, yet its tones vibrated sweetly through this vast place. In
an instant all was changed. The seats were gone, and no vestige of them
remained. All the ghosts had changed too, and instead of being gay and
festive, they looked sad and downcast, and their heads were bent and
their whole air was one of intense dejection.
The young man asked one of the ghosts what the matter was, and he
replied simply “penance,” and fell into line as if to go somewhere. The
heart of the intrepid reporter sank into his boots as he looked around
for the ghost who had invited him down here and failed to see him
anywhere. Finally, just as he had lost all hope he felt a light touch on
his shoulder, and turned to see who it was, and there he stood,
grinning.
“Did you think I had deserted you? Well, you need not have been alarmed,
for there is one thing ghosts don’t do, however much they may have
deviated in life, and that is, they tell the truth. And I told you I
would come in time.
“We are now going outside, and you shall see how some of us have to work
to get our passports, and it may be a lesson for your future guidance.
And, yes, I have thought out how you may arrange about the rum. It will
be more to your interest to go up to the museum, and I never was one to
interfere with an appointment with a lady, so go up there by all means,
but if you can and will, why you can stop and just tuck the bottle and
tobacco and pipe under the stone where I sat when we first made each
other's acquaintance. I have heard that there are now to be obtained
waterproof matches, and if that is so I would suggest them, for think
what a disappointment it would be not to be able to light the pipe after
all! I shall think about it the whole year, and I do not know how I
could bear such a terrible disappointment.”
The young man felt a glow of shame to think that he had thought more of
his own benefit than of his promise, and as he thought the good-natured
ghost said:
“My dear boy, do not worry over that. You did quite right, and if you
can help that poor princess you will be doing a meritorious action. She
may be, and probably is able to do all she asserts. I am sorry that I do
not know where there is any treasure, but I will look around and make
inquiries, and if you have time to see me at our next anniversary just
for a moment I shall be only too glad to tell you.”
“I wish to see you again, not only on the next, but also all other
anniversaries, as long as it shall be possible, but I have learned too
much since I came down here to-night to ever care for money again save
for what good I can do with it. One thing I have had in my mind for a
good while, a desire born of things I have seen in and around newspaper
offices and among other publishers. There is no room for old writers.
The cry is always for new thoughts, fresh ideas and the finish and depth
of thought which the elderly writers bring are nothing beside the
sensational work of the young man. I have thought sometimes when I saw
the reporters rushing off copy under high pressure only intent on
getting something so sensational that it would make even the managing
editor hold his breath, that that is not the kind of thing that ought to
be written. The older men would hesitate to father such stuff, and
because they have culture and conscience enough to do better and more
worthy work no one will buy it. What I would like to do is to found a
weekly paper where every contributor should be at least sixty years old.
It might be considered slow by those accustomed to the sensational
journals of today, but it would be good mental food, and it would also
give the old men a chance to live.”
“In that way we might learn from the wisdom of age, in your paper, and
be cheered by the sallies of youth in the others. Is that it?”
“Exactly. But I see no chance of being able to do this, unless something
now entirely unexpected happens.”
“I will try and see if I can’t manage to interest some of the ghosts
down here and we can possibly find the means to help you, for while we
naturally are obliged to leave all wealth behind us, we may be able to
locate hidden treasure for you or at least a mine.”
“I may never be able to carry out my plan, but this I can promise you,
that if I ever see a body about to be moved I will try to see that it is
comfortably fixed. And, I think I shall always be a little more careful
what I do, and if you will allow me to say it, I shall always feel
grateful to you for bringing me down here to-night. As long as I shall
live and am able I shall make it a point to come here every anniversary
of this night, bringing with me such creature comforts as I think may
prove acceptable.”
“You said that before, but I thank you again,” replied the ghost, at the
same time taking his hand and shaking it with a fervor not to be
expected in one so long dead, and in the world of spirits.
By this time the assembly had begun to pass out of the underground
place, and many of the ghosts—in fact all of the invited guests and
tramp ghosts faded away, and the young man rubbed his eyes to see where
they had gone. All that he could determine was that they had been there
and were gone.
They stood in the graveyard again, and the tramp ghost of Mr. Van Der
Dam, the man whose leg the reporter had been the means of restoring, bid
him a sorrowful good-bye. He shook his hand until the young man wished
in his heart that the ghost were a little less demonstrative. He wished
him the best of good fortunes, and saying that disappeared so suddenly
and completely that it made him dizzy.
He now became aware of a subdued murmur that passed all over the place.
The sociable ghost stood near him by the side of the stone from under
which he had exuded, so to speak, earlier in the night. He suddenly
dropped to his knees, regardless of the pebbles which might have hurt
the fleshless bones, and began rubbing the stone actively, while there
were sounds of moaning and sobbing heard all over the place, and in the
semi-darkness the young man saw forms crouching down by the different
headstones.
There was a sound like scouring and scraping, and then bright, livid
lines of light quivered and trembled along the different tombstones in
the form of words. At last the young man could not control his curiosity
any longer and asked the ghost to tell him what it all meant.
“Why just this. We have to come out of our graves every year and read our
own epitaphs. Then we have to write what we deserved in truth. I assure