CHAPTER V.

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.”