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.
“That is about all of the old man’s effects left intact, and he is
naturally drawn toward it, and now he is standing there in the pungent
odor of raw pelts, and turning that baling press for all he is worth and
if ghosts can sweat he is sweating now and enjoying himself in the
keenest delight.”
“I should think he would prefer to spend the evening at the magnificent
library which his money gave to the world. That is a noble sight, and I
should think he would be glad to get out of the ground for a while.”
“My young friend, John Jacob Astor, the founder of that family, loved
his business better than money. He could not be hired to leave the old
press for all the books there is in it. When he is debarred from his
present occupation he puts in his time turning over the raw furs in this
place and inhaling their pungent odor, familiar and redolent of the old
days. The rest of his time he sleeps and takes the repose which his
active spirit would not allow him on earth.”
The young newspaper man thought a little about these things and
remembered that only a few days ago he had been in this very warehouse
where he had seen so much of beauty and value and yet missed seeing this
old baling press, and he rather wondered, too, how anyone could prefer
the penetrating odor of raw skins to the fresh air of night under the
stars. He could understand how the sight and feel of the soft finished
garments might appeal to one, but he only said:
“I don’t see why the Family should care for a better name and fame than
that the old man left—that of an industrious, frugal and honest man—”
Before the young man could finish his sentence he became aware of a
perfect cloud of shadowy forms, and all seemed to be gathering around
him. He began to wish that he had gone for the whiskey and failed to
return. His companion sat on the edge of a tombstone from which he had
seemed to exude when he first made his appearance.
They had returned to that place while talking and as he did so he rubbed
his stubbed toe, and for a few minutes no one said or did anything. At
last the ghost said in a sibilant whisper:
“I think there would be time for one more smoke if you would be so good.
The guests are gathering fast and I will smoke fast, too.”
The young man hastily filled the pipe with the last of the tobacco and
the ghost smoked it and handed it back, saying:
“The tobacco is nearly all powder and does not smoke so well as the
rest. No, no, I am not blaming you, but only saying that one of my
experiences in life has been that when we do not use the good things of
life with moderation we are sure to find the last lacking in flavor.
Now, I could not resist one last smoke when I knew I might never have
another, and in so doing I drained the cup to the dregs, so to speak—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, but if I am alive next year, and you will
tell me how I can find you, I will come and bring such creature comforts
as you may wish to have. If you will tell me—”
“I thank you with all my heart, and would suggest that the liquid
refreshment might be rum, good Jamaica rum. I acquired a taste for that,
and beyond that and a good smoke I can ask for nothing for it may have
occurred to you that I have no need for food.
“We are now about to go below for the banquet and general reunion of
such of us as have become acquainted. There will be some guests from
Derby, Conn., and some of their relatives, and there will be some
Revolutionary soldiers, and quite a number of tramp ghosts. A few
sailors will also be here. They have been lying in a forgotten place
over in Brooklyn and they are now being rooted out of there for someone
wants to build a house. And I notice there seven old fellows who have
been lying under the Hall of Records. There was once a cemetery there
and many more are there but I shall not be the one to go and tell where.
It is bad enough to be waiting for your passport without having to be a
tramp ghost beside. Many of the old Revolutionary heroes lie there and
in the language of a poet: ‘The knights are dust, And their good swords
are rust; Their souls are with the saints, we trust.'
“Ah, well! Ladies will also grace the feast. The only unpleasant thing
is that we have never been able to sweep away class distinctions, and
pride of birth. And, I must confess that I am as bad as anyone, for
whenever I see a sailor I just ache to send him to the forecastle, and
of course there is no such place here. You have heard of the ruling
passion being strong in death. It remains with us much as it was before
we died, and it seems as if nothing can be of much moral or spiritual
good until we get our passports.”
Just as the newspaper man was about to ask again about the passports,
the other ghosts were so near that he waited, and at that moment a tall
ghost stood up very straight, and smoothing a lock of imaginary hair
from his forehead, said:
“Ladies and gentlemen—.” Then he paused and looked so steadily at the
young man that he felt his heart sink into his boots, but the tall ghost
contented himself with one long regard, and then he continued:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have met here tonight to fulfill our yearly
duty, and to meet in friendly intercourse. I hope you will all have a
good time.”
As he said this he sat down on the edge of a crumbling headstone and
glared around. There were murmurs of approbation and he rose and bowed
with as much grace as was possible to a ghost who had scarcely a dozen
remnants of his shroud hanging around him. But this absence of raiment
did not seem to affect the ghosts in the least, and only one or two
appeared to notice that their shrouds were in need of repair.
They were now by the northwest corner of the Church, and at a sign from
the tall ghost they all followed him and marched around back to the
Lawrence tomb. This was thrown open like a door in the solid masonry,
and they began to descend in couples, such a crowd that they looked like
mist, and no one stood out a distinct individuality in the transit.
The good-natured ghost then took the newspaper man by the arm and they
followed the rest. No one took the slightest notice of them for which
the man not yet dead was very thankful. He did not half like the idea of
going down into the bowels of the earth among all these ghosts. As soon
as they were down the young man saw to his surprise that there was a room
so vast that his sight could not penetrate it to the end of it nor the
width in any direction. It was lighted with a radiance so suave and pure
that he wondered from whence it came.
The vast place was sustained by many columns of the finest marble, and
was arched somewhat after the fashion of the church above. He could not
repress an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for never in his life
did he see anything approaching it for beauty. Every column was carved
in a different manner, and it seemed to him as if all the artists in the
world or that ever lived had each made one, and this in competition with
the others. One would be covered with flowers of such delicacy and
perfection that it was impossible to believe them of marble, and the
young man put out his hand and touched some of them to make sure that
they were not some new and colorless plants growing down here. Others
were covered with the most intricate designs, and the eye wearied in
trying to follow the lines, so interlaced and complicated they were.
Others looked like lace. The fine lace pattern could be traced in all
its daintiness, and it was a marvel of skill. Some of the columns
resembled the tracery on the walls of the Alhambra, and some had vines
through which peeped women’s faces in all moods, ages and degrees of
beauty. Twin columns stood in one place and, on these nothing but
children’s faces. Some of the babies carved on them were laughing,
others crying, and so crowded, one beside another, and one above another
that one wondered how so many could have been found in the world. Some
of the babies were dead, others sick, some asleep, some plump and
dimpled and more wan and wasted. Babies, babies, and yet more babies.
The newspaper man was lost in astonishment at the number of them and the
exquisiteness of the artist’s work. He examined so many of these
beautiful columns that his brain was weary with the effort.
Then he turned his gaze to the lighting of this immense place, and was
surprised that he had not noticed it at first. There were arches
innumerable, and each one of these was covered with glowing vines, all
such as bear flowers. In some places were hung baskets of the most
gorgeous orchids, with their pendant foliage. Many of the columns had
passion vines covered with their mysterious blossoms. There were roses
and clematis and hundreds of other flowers that he had never seen, all
climbing up those arches, and drooping in graceful festoons. He suddenly
became aware that all the light emanated from the flowers and the leaves
of these climbing plants. The passion flowers emitted light of the
natural color of these blossoms, and the roses shed soft radiance. Even
the leaves and tendrils were incandescent. Every bud and flower gave its
share of light and the effect of all these together was one of marvelous
richness, yet it was delicate and beautiful beyond description.
The odor of the different flowers hung on the air until it was almost
oppressive, but yet so delicious. The young man thought what a success
this kind of lighting and decoration would be for some of the smart set
who are always trying to find something new with which to surprise their
guests. He made a mental note of it and said to himself that other men
had become leaders in the domains of swelldom on less than this, and he
decided to keep his eyes open for any other novelty which could be
transplanted above ground.
There was a breeze from somewhere, and he saw that the festoons of
incandescent flowers were swaying in the wind, and the movement set free
hundreds of delicious odors until now unsuspected. He was trying to
study out a plan by which the danger of fire could be avoided, and still
preserve all the marvelous effect of the illumination. As he stood lost
in his admiration he became aware that a man was watching him. As he
turned the man made a ceremonious bow and said:
“Excuse me, sir; but may I ask if you are really as much interested in
the decorations as you appear to be?”
“I certainly am,” answered the young man, “and I wonder who could have
done it. It must have taken many minds and many hands to have
accomplished it. I am filled with wonder at the master mind that
conceived it. Can you tell me anything about it?”
“Yes, for the original idea was mine, though many hands helped in
carrying out the details. While I was alive, being a man of wealth and
leisure, I amused myself in getting up unique affairs intended to amuse
Society. I planned many things, both of a public and private nature, and
if you will look over the files of the society papers of my time you
will see that all were successful, even when I had but earthly hands and
intelligence to depend upon. Our insight is keener now and our hands are
no longer the clumsy things of life. Here I have but to formulate an idea
and the artists, electricians and florists know my exact meaning; I
flatter myself that the decorations here tonight are pretty fine. I do
not believe that anyone could surpass them. What do you think?”
“I flatter myself that the decorations are fine”
“I think it is marvelous. But, please tell me—am I not speaking to the
great—”
“Hush, young man. No one is great or small here. Only some have more
power than others for certain reasons. I undertook the getting up of
this affair just to keep my hand in. I hope that when I get my passport