Chapter I.
THE BEGINNING OF THE ACQUAINTANCE

At the northwestern end of Trinity Church stands a clump of bushes under a tree, and lying under both bushes and tree is a large, flat stone with the inscription quite effaced. It is the entrance to one of the old family vaults. Beneath this dense shrubbery in the darkness at night sat a young man. The hour was so late that even in that busy neighborhood the lights were few and far between, except in the tall newspaper offices up the street.

Few people could be seen on the great thoroughfare which but a few hours before had been so animated. Stillness reigned save for the occasional train of cars now and then whizzing by at the back, and the Broadway cars shooting along at great and uninterrupted speed in front.

The young man was not ill nor out of employ, as the notebook and pencils in his pocket would show. Yet he was plainly out of sorts with everything.

A little dog came sniffing around him and he kicked it viciously, and a starved kitten crept timidly up to him, whereat he picked a piece of stone from the slab and threw it at the little creature which, frightened, scampered away in the darkness.

Aroused thus from his reverie, the young man looked and felt more miserable than ever. He was surprised at himself, for this was the first time in his life that he had ever made a movement to harm an animal. His conscience pricked him and he did not like the sensation.

From all this it may be inferred that the young man was in love, and that was the truth; and worse than all, the girl of his choice was now as unattainable as one of the stars in the Milky Way. First of all, she was the only daughter of a millionaire, and secondly, she was to be married the next day to an impecunious nobleman from sunny France. Thirdly, she had eyes only for the grand title. And that was why this young man sat alone in the darkest corner of Trinity churchyard, kicking dogs and stoning cats.

That very day his chief had given him an assignment to go and write a description of the wedding presents. He had turned in his copy, and not waiting to find out if there was anything else to do, went out, and with the instinct of a hurt dog, had chosen the darkest spot he knew of, and had crept down to this place, which even in daylight is gloomy, prepared to suffer as much as he wished to, unknown to anyone. If he went home he must see his adoring mother. He was not prepared for that. He felt that he could not bear the scrutiny of her soft but penetrating glance until he had gotten over the worst. He knew well that she would see his trouble, even though he said no word, and that she would wait for him to speak. But, even this unspoken sympathy was more than he could endure. He intended to fight it out alone, now and in the darkness, shut out from human kind and curious scrutiny.

A fine old pipe and a paper of tobacco, not yet opened, and a box of matches were in his pocket, but he was in no mood for the soothing influence of the weed. In another pocket was a flask of good whiskey which he always carried for such emergencies as might arise in his profession as a reporter, but it was full and untouched. He had forgotten that he had it.

The noises of the great city were settling down to a soft hum as it approached midnight. The trains and electric cars were fewer now, while the throbbing of the newspaper presses away up on Park Row sounded clear and distinct in his ears as the other noises ceased. The sweet calm of a mild May night fell unconsciously upon him and brought with it a feeling almost of resignation.

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone. Amazed and bewildered, he saw that the old graveyard was waking up, and that from every grave issued a shade which took form as it rose fully free from the earth.

A shadowy figure quite near him appeared entirely ignorant of his presence, and as soon as his cerements were free from the mold of the grave from which he had come, gave an audible sniff, shook himself so that his bones rattled like a bag of dry oyster shells, and as he did so said:

“Zounds and pea blossoms! What wouldn’t I give for a good pipe full of tobacco! I’ve a notion to stay dead.”

Saying this the loose-jointed ghost threw one leg over his tombstone and began to drum on it with his heels, while he folded his bony arms with supreme disgust.

The newspaper man, now all alert to the situation, hurriedly opened the paper of tobacco and filling his pipe, which was of that warm, rich hue of brown so dear to the heart of the smoker as the result of many hours of solitude, and much copy, he lighted it and sent out a couple of whiffs to pave the way for his voice which followed the puffs of smoke. The ghost still sat drumming with his heels on the stone and watched the operation.

“If I—may I—offer you my pipe?” stammered the young man.

“You may, indeed, and be sure of the thanks of a man who has not smoked for so long that he has almost forgotten how it tastes.”

The ghost sighed so heavily that the rags fluttered around as he drew himself up with dignity, at the same time covering his breast bone with the morsels of his shroud. He received the pipe most graciously and enjoyed it with infinite gusto, though, to be sure, the smoke seemed to ooze out afterwards from all over his angular anatomy.

The little heart of fire glowed brightly in the bowl of the pipe, and as the rich cloud of smoke gradually enveloped the ghost, it told more eloquently than words could have done of his enjoyment. The newspaper man stood ready to fill it up again, and it suddenly occurred to him that possibly the contents of the small flask in his pocket might prove acceptable, so he made bold to offer it, saying:

“I have a little old whiskey, if you ever indulge—”

“Indulge! Dear sir, you are a Christian! I have not had a snifter for—as many years as I have been dead. Tears enough to float a seventy-four gun ship have bedewed my grave, but nobody has ever thought of pouring out a little good rum. Ah, there is a flavor about rum so rich and fine that it makes one think of all the molasses in the world boiled down into one bottle. Here’s to your health; your very good health, the health of your wife, your children, your mother, and hoping that your bottle may never be empty!”

With every fresh sentiment the ghost lifted the bottle to his mouth, and at last handed that and the pipe back with evident reluctance. The pipe was now cold.

“Would you care to smoke again?” asked the young man.

“I would indeed, my good sir. I cannot tell you the comfort you have given me on this occasion, an occasion only too trying to the most hardened ghost.”

“May I ask the nature of it?”

“You may; you may. I owe you that much. But, before I do, let me move around so that I cannot see that fellow’s headstone. It makes me sick. Just see that epitaph. I knew the chap, and all about him. The epitaph tells how brave he was in the Mexican war where he fell a hero. Instead of dying like a hero, he ran like a whitehead—he did—and caught his foot in a vine and fell into a cactus bush and was kicked to death by a Roman-nosed mule with one loose shoe. It was that loose shoe that did the business.”

Here the ghost fell to puffing again with a vigor born of vexation and disgust. The newspaper man now saw that there were many other forms quite as unsubstantial as this one walking around slowly. He noticed also that they kicked vigorously at some of the headstones as they passed, and that they all appeared to have and show a special hatred for some dark objects scattered among the graves. The young man could not resist the desire to know why the other ghosts seemed to be so angry. The ghost who was still smoking with evident pleasure, said:

“Oh, the usual thing.”

“And what is that, if I may ask?”

“Oh, just as if it is not enough to be dead and not have your passport yet! Here come a lot of fools and stick flowers over your grave. It is true that we do not have so much to complain of in this respect as some of the newer cemeteries do. The most of us have been here for so long that we have no relatives to come here and leave them, and the public thinks it is quite honor enough to be buried here. Other cemeteries may be forgotten or removed, but this one is as solid as the rock of Gibraltar. It is honeycombed about as much too. And there are flowers enough growing in their proper places without sticking more around. We don’t care so much for sentiment as people seem to think we do. We have learned the value of it. We have grown practical.”

The newspaper man held out his hand for the pipe to fill it again, gently asking the ghost to tell him what this special occasion might be, adding that he would be very grateful for anything that the ghost might be willing to impart, as probably he would never have a better chance to learn.

The other ghosts sauntered along, looking enviously at this one as he sat there smoking vehemently and reflecting. It actually appeared that the ghosts could see and that they looked at him, though in the very nature of things they ought not to be able to see without eyes. Their efforts to appear entirely unconcerned while the favored one sat smoking were funny, or would have been so under any other circumstances.

The young journalist had mentally christened this as the Sociable Ghost, and he waited silently, observing him while he did so, and pondered on the delight of the smoker as he in time became conscious of the glances of envy and overwhelming smoke-hunger of the other ghosts. They evidently would have done anything for just one whiff at that pipe, but they saw that there was nothing to hope for, and that they were confronting another bloated monopoly. But they all ranged themselves in line with apparent carelessness, so that the night wind should waft the smoke toward them. They sniffed the smoke eagerly and looked as though they would like to annihilate the smoker.

Apparently unnoticing and unconcerned, the sociable ghost continued to smoke as though reflecting on what he should say to this young man, and possibly it occurred to him that if he told all there was to say too soon, the young man might go away, and there was still quite a lot of tobacco in the paper, and some more of the whiskey which he had left in the flask for good manners. He could not jeopardize what might be his last chance.

“There is a sort of sameness here,” said the ghost irrelevantly, with a comprehensive wave of the hand, “particularly in the architecture.” And then he suddenly kicked at a bone which had attracted his attention, though how it had escaped the attention of Floyd, whose whole life is spent in trying to keep the place immaculately clean is a mystery. The young man thought perhaps the little dog had brought it in. But, however it had come there, it seemed to annoy the ghost greatly. He said angrily:

“There’s reverence for you! There’s respect and sentiment. When I was a small shaver I regarded a graveyard as a sacred place, and scarcely dared to let my little feet fall for fear they might weigh too heavily on the sainted dead below. 'Sainted dead!' Now that is a good one, too! Well, perhaps familiarity does breed contempt. If you will excuse me for mentioning it, my pipe is out,” remarked the ghost rather abruptly. The young man filled it, and at the same time the thought intruded itself into his mind that the ghost had said “My pipe.” The ghost took it gracefully and after a couple of puffs said:

“If you like, we will walk around a little while I smoke this last pipe, for I shall soon have sights to show you, as well as things to tell, and must hurry before we begin the carnival.”

“Begin what?” asked the young man a little nervously.

“Well, we have a sort of convention of all the ghosts of this city and some delegations from other places, some from quite a distance, I believe. We are to have a dance after some speech-making and a banquet. There will also be some general amusements such as are permitted in good society. After that we do our penance—that is some regard it in that light, but I do not for it makes the stone lie heavy over my head.”

As the Sociable Ghost said that he waved his hand indefinitely and stood up on his skeleton feet and prepared to walk.

“As we go along I will tell you many things that never came to your knowledge, and they may be of service to you in after life. If I had known all that I am going to show you and tell you tonight before I died, I might have done some things and not done others, and so shortened my probation a good while. I then would never have been stuck under this lying stone.”

In the meantime the number of ghosts grew larger so rapidly that it seemed there would soon be room for no more. The ghost said:

“The most of the ghosts that you see here tonight above ground are invited guests, and they come because the march of civilization as you call it, has left them no place where they might hold a reunion of their own, for it is only in settled cemeteries that there can be such a function as you shall see here tonight—that is if you wish to remain.”

The newspaper man hastily signified that he would indeed like to be present at such a function. Up to the present time in his career as a reporter he had never flinched from anything in the way of sight-seeing, and after having witnessed so much that was strange and hazardous he was not going to flinch now. The ghost continued:

“The whole place is honeycombed with vaults which we can at will transform into a place befitting the occasion. This is done by means of certain powers given us, but before I go on I wish you to take particular notice of my headstone. Why, I will tell you later. I know all the ghosts belonging to this place and many more, and whatever I may say about them will be truthful history and no one will say that I have ever belied him.”

The young man hastened to remark that he was sure of that, adding that he had always heard of the chivalric manner in which the men of the past generations spoke of others, and especially he admired the reverence which they showed towards all women, which was very beautiful.

A strange, crackling laugh was the answer to this. It sent the cold chills galloping up and down the reporter's spine. It also checked any further expression of his admiration of bygone manners.

“Young man, you are positively refreshing! We did regard all women except our own and the ugly ones with the greatest consideration. That has been the rule since the world began, and will be unto the end. But to resume. Look now at my headstone. I was a rich man in my day and time and had every reason to expect a fine monument with a weeping willow on it or at least a cherub, and a nice big slab. Just see what I got! It reminds me of one Christmas morning when after I had been extra good for three months hoping to get a bright red sled, I found a copy of Sanford and Merton in my stocking. I wonder I didn’t turn out to be a pirate! Maybe I didn’t go out behind the barn and tear the thing up, and lie like a little imp when they found out the book was gone. Since then I made it a point to lick every man by the name of Sanford or Merton that I ever met. Fool names, both of them.”

“I don’t blame you a bit,” said the young man with spirit, as the remembrance of much the same experience flitted across his mind. The Sociable Ghost continued:

“Pardon me for interrupting—I am a little out of practice in telling a story. To take up the thread of my narrative. Here you see a measly little slab of red sandstone, and no sign of the little cherub that sits up aloft watching out for the safety of poor Jack. I was a captain and commanded my own ship. She was as fine a vessel as ever rode out a gale. I loved every timber in her hull and every rope on the rigging and every spar and mast and sail as women love their young ones.”

“I can quite understand that,” assented the young man.

“Well, my ship made me a rich man. My relict, to offset the strict economy that she showed in the matter of stone, had a lot of stuff about my noble qualities and my pious—and all that. So much indeed, that not half shows above ground. All of this makes me just so much work and dirty work. Digging down in it without implements! You may see where it says that I sailed to Liverpool, and so I did, once or twice, but the most of my voyages were to the West Indies and to Africa. I brought cargoes of rum and molasses for the merchants who were in the business here then, and who were not ashamed of working in their own warehouses, and whose descendants today put on many grand airs. They talk about their ancestors, as though they had been of some superior clay. I hate airs, and always did. Nine out of ten of these old merchants dealt in either slaves or rum. The slaves came from the coast of Africa. I brought them for the account of these people whose descendants put on the airs. I suppose from the legend on my headstone if I had left any descendants they would have put on quite as many airs. I am glad I did not. As I said, I hate airs.”

“I think any right-feeling person does,” hazarded the reporter, who was a little in doubt as to the outcome of this conversation.

“I held my wife so close in money matters,” continued the ghost reminiscently, “being thrifty, and looking forward to the time when I should be able to stay on shore, that I never let her know how much I had. Later, when she got control of all my earnings she had so profited by my example and teachings that—well, you see what a headstone she gave me. I had done many things for that money—things that I now wish that I had not done. I taught her economy and by George! when she had a chance to pay me in my own coin, she did it and she did it well. Just look at that miserable chunk of old sandstone all covered with a lot of da—I mean a lot of untruthful stuff that will keep me at it I don’t know how many years yet. If she had known she could not have revenged herself on me worse. She gave all my clothes and a puncheon of good rum to the fool sculptor, and I am just waiting for him to come down here. If he ever does, I won’t do a thing to him but make him think he mistook his vocation and ought to have been a boiler maker and stayed safely in one of his iron-clad boilers.”

As the angry ghost delivered himself of this speech, he somehow took on such a fierce expression, shown more in attitude than feature—since he had no features—that the young man was sincerely glad that he had not been guilty of carving the objectionable stuff on the fast crumbling stone. As they walked along the ghost continued:

“Now, take notice that this stone has all the epitaph rubbed out. The name only remains, and that proves that he was a pretty good sort. Here is another where the epitaph is all gone except the date. Now that is a good start, isn’t it?”

The young man murmured something about it seeming so, though he was entirely in the dark about it. Still he knew enough to keep still and let the ghost tell his story in his own way and in his own time. Many a time he had managed to secure a fine story for his paper from someone who had declared that he had nothing to say by judiciously keeping silence, curbing his curiosity and inquisitiveness, and speaking only when absolutely necessary. He began to feel that he was going to get something tonight not often given to mortals, and he mentally arranged the headlines of the story, for of course he would sell it. Every other experience save one had been made to yield him so many dollars, and it was natural that this strange meeting should appeal to him only as a scoop beyond the power of any mortal to equal. So he discreetly awaited the pleasure of his ghostly companion.

He wondered if the pebbles hurt the ghost’s feet. He felt a little delicate about mentioning it, particularly as he could have proposed no remedy even if the pebbles did hurt. Soon the ghost stopped by a rather small headstone, and in a reminiscent manner said, between the delicious whiffs of smoke:

“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 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 something before he gets a street named after him. Some of the old members of these families were not so rich as their descendants are today. There were no millionaires in my time in New York.”

Chapter II.
THE REPORTER MEETS THE LEADER OF THE FOUR HUNDRED

The Sociable Ghost and the newspaper man continued their walk though the ghost still limped painfully. The reporter tried to bring himself to offer his arm for the ghost to lean upon, but somehow he could not seem to care to get too close to the living skeleton as he mentally considered him. Still he would not willingly have dispensed with his company. Finally the ghost took up the conversation where he had left it off.

“I was not born then, let alone being dead, but I have often conversed with the founders of this mother of churches in this country, and also the founders of those first families at our reunions. You just ought to hear them go on about the extravagance of their descendants. They say that when they were taking up subscriptions for building the new steeple, Joseph Aspinwall gave one pound six, and Oliver Schuyler put down one pound; Mrs. Coddington gave two pounds, while Gilbert Livingstone gave five shillings and six pence. Philip Schuyler donated six shillings, Mrs. Hamilton gave two pounds fifteen shillings, and Rip Van Dam, one pound six shillings, and so on no one giving much, if any more than two pounds. This was while John Cruger was vestryman with Isaac Decker and Josephus Bayard as co-laborers. I notice that the women were more generous then as now to church matters and needs, and it has always been a question with me why this is so. Now, is it because as a general rule the women did not have to work for the money as the husbands did, and so they did not appreciate its value, or is it because the women are by nature more generous and more religious than men? I heard somewhere once that it was said that it is the women who sustain the churches. Well, I don’t care, Wow! That toe twinges!”

All this did not interest the young reporter as much as the ghost seemed to think it should, but politeness forbade him to make any sign. His appetite was whetted for what was to come and he did not wish to destroy his chances. He had a vague idea that he had read something like this in the archives of this old and honored church, while preparing a description of the three hundredth anniversary, but as he saw that the ghost liked to enlighten his ignorance he wisely kept silence. At this moment the ghost said:

“Come on, it will soon be time now. But before we go take one look at the headstone erected to the memory of William Bradford. He was the first Government printer and spent fifty years in the service, and left this world worn out with old age and labor. He printed the first Bible in this country, and his old press is kept as a memorial.

“He was a decent, simple, hardworking chap, and used all his strength in his work. And, he didn't get rich either. Well; maybe you have seen instances of the truly good getting the fool good to sign away their lives for the benefit of the truly good. I put this matter in a mild form, for I am apt to get hot under the collar when I think of how many of the fool-good fellows are bound down to a life of underpaid toil to give others the benefit of it all.”

Here the ghost paused impressively, and the reporter bowed seriously as though fully agreeing with him. In fact he did fully agree with the ghost completely, for he knew something of the matter himself in a small way. The ghost resumed:

“When I say the truly good, I mean those who are so very good that the fool-good are blinded by their reputation and so toil for them for next to nothing. I tell you, publishers have no pudding down here, and the religious ones seem to be singled out for special punishment. One man is here tonight who used to run a religious paper. All he paid his writers was one dollar a column, and however hard they tried they couldn’t earn over six or seven dollars a week. He made contracts with the poor fellows to write for him alone, so they could not help themselves when he cut down the number of columns. One of these unfortunate men wrote a book while this contract was in force and it made quite a success and blow me! if the religious chap did not go and claim the book, too. How it would have turned out I do not know for the publisher died. I'll show him to you when we go down, that is if you would care to see him.”

“You bet I would!” said the reporter with sudden warmth. Whereupon the ghost said in a manner to calm his just anger:

“I don't think they are all so bad. But one thing I have noticed and that is that all the publishers have money, and all the things that money brings, while the great majority of the writers are poor, some of them miserably so. All the religious publishers and editors are down here and rather flock together. They seem to enjoy talking over the tricks of trade. I used to think that I was something of a pirate, too, in my way, and therefore their conversations interested me more probably, than they might otherwise have done. If you were to hear them talk together you would think much less of them than you do now.”

“I couldn’t!” answered the young man, with emphasis and conviction.

“I will show you another thing tonight that ought to please you if you take any special interest in publishers, and that is what is done with those publishers who make the writers wait for their money until their stories are published. It would be a balm for the hearts of the authors, and I wish you would let the writers know about it. It may be a poor satisfaction for those who die before their stories are published. It has always been a satisfaction to me to whale the fellow that tries to cheat me out of my own, and if I can’t whale him to see someone else do it and do it up brown.”

“They tell us that we must speak no evil of the dead,” said the young man tritely.

“These dead don't wait for anyone to tell what they have done, They think it is all right. What they have to suffer in seeing the papers, or the books they used to work on and about done so much better than they could do while alive! The policies of the whole thing are changed in many cases and that is very bitter. Well, with one last word on this subject I will let them alone. It seems to me that when a man writes a book or a story and offers it for sale, he has the same right to offer it as an artist his picture, or a cabinet-maker to offer his wares, and I can't see why the author should have to wait for his pay any more than the others. If it suits the publisher enough to cause him to buy it the buyer should pay for it. I have heard men tell here how they had had stories accepted for publication and kept there year after year, and then they died before they were published. And, as soon as they did die the publishers used them at once and paid nothing even to the widows. Now, of course, I have no means of knowing much about these matters, but it seems to me to be an outrage if it is true. I used to write poetry on shipboard, at night, and I am sure that I should not have liked this sort of treatment, if it is true.”

“Some of them are several times meaner than any you have mentioned. But, show them to me if you please,” said the reporter, who had a bone to pick with two or three dead publishers.

“I will. I am sorry for poor Bradford, for they have gone and restored his whole epitaph. He was good to me when I first came down and kindly taught me the rules. It is a bit rough until you have learned the ropes after you are dead.”

“Will you excuse me if I ask you a question? I have always been led to think that those who are dead dislike to hear the word dead. They are supposed to prefer to hear, ‘passed into spirit life’ and ‘gone to Summerland’ instead. All the mediums use that word, in palliation and instead of the harsher one. Dead, gives one a shock to hear,” asked the young man in a laudable desire to learn all he could.

“Poppycock and moonshine!” was the unexpected response. “There is no such thing as a medium. No, sir; they get your money and—do you suppose that one of them could get you the invitation to come down here tonight? You are soon to enter the very doors of ghostdom, but not through the efforts of any medium. No, sir; they trade upon your sense of loss and sorrow when anyone of yours dies, and they foster and encourage your desire to penetrate the mystery of the future life. They get your money by fraud, working upon your best sentiments. They ought to be keelhauled, and should be if I had my way. I'd string them to the yardarm and whack them with a rope’s end. If the tie that bound you to anyone you loved is broken by death there is no third party that can come and for a certain sum in cash become the medium of communication between you, and I say, lick the man that tells you different. You are getting this straight from a real ghost. In my warmth I had almost forgotten that you asked if we who are dead dislike to hear anyone say the word Dead. Quite the contrary, for we are dead and it would be very silly to try to disguise the fact, and we do not try to down here. Fact is truth and truth governs down here. Dead we are and dead we stay, and after all I am not sure that we are not quite as well, and sometimes better off, than when alive. If we miss some things we escape others. Well, come on; but before we go let me say that the Trinity ghosts are the hosts tonight and they feel themselves the most aristocratic ghosts in the land, so I wished to caution you so that you would avoid hurting anyone’s feelings by seeming to doubt it.”

“I shall be very careful, sir, and hope you will be near enough to forewarn me of any possible mistake. I assure you that I appreciate this distinguished honor more than I can say. But, I should like to ask if any of the Vanderbilts will be here tonight?”

“No, young man; there will be no Vanderbilts here tonight. But I can tell you something else that may interest you, and that is where old John Jacob Astor is tonight. You have doubtless heard that the old man was a worker from head to foot. Work was ingrained in his thrifty nature. He wandered all over America to buy up fur skins. For a long time he carried them on his back, so we are told, until his business had grown so that he required help, and could afford to pay for it. Even then he would gladly have carried them all, so great was his instinct of thrift. Then, when he found he could not tie them up alone he bought a baling press. This baling press he came to love. It marked for him the very spirit of progress, though it is a clumsy old thing made of beams and iron levers and screws. To this he confided his ambitions and joys and sorrows. So when his year of dormant waiting is over, like ours, and he is at liberty to amuse himself as he wishes for the few hours before the penance begins, The Master lets him choose between this evening of festivity and his own desire. His ghost is now down in the sub-cellar of the great John Ruszits fur company, where the women of four generations have brought their furs. This company was formed in 1851, and Astor died a few years before. The new Ruszits company must have felt a certain friendship for the old man, though there is no record of their ever dining together, for when the old baling press was about to be sold for junk, at auction, with the rest of the effects of the old fur house, they purchased it and had it set up in the sub-cellar and have carefully preserved it ever since. It is about thirty feet below the surface of the street. It is pretty sure that the present members of the family have no desire to keep it as an heirloom.

“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?”