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.
“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