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r what good I can do with it. One thing I have had in my mind for a
good while, a desire born of things I have seen in and around newspaper
offices and among other publishers. There is no room for old writers.
The cry is always for new thoughts, fresh ideas and the finish and depth
of thought which the elderly writers bring are nothing beside the
sensational work of the young man. I have thought sometimes when I saw
the reporters rushing off copy under high pressure only intent on
getting something so sensational that it would make even the managing
editor hold his breath, that that is not the kind of thing that ought to
be written. The older men would hesitate to father such stuff, and
because they have culture and conscience enough to do better and more
worthy work no one will buy it. What I would like to do is to found a
weekly paper where every contributor should be at least sixty years old.
It might be considered slow by those accustomed to the sensational
journals of today, but it would be good mental food, and it would also
give the old men a chance to live."

"In that way we might learn from the wisdom of age, in your paper, and
be cheered by the sallies of youth in the others. Is that it?"

"Exactly. But I see no chance of being able to do this, unless something
now entirely unexpected happens."

"I will try and see if I can't manage to interest some of the ghosts
down here and we can possibly find the means to help you, for while we
naturally are obliged to leave all wealth behind us, we may be able to
locate hidden treasure for you or at least a mine."

"I may never be able to carry out my plan, but this I can promise you,
that if I ever see a body about to be moved I will try to see that it is
comfortably fixed. And, I think I shall always be a little more careful
what I do, and if you will allow me to say it, I shall always feel
grateful to you for bringing me down here to-night. As long as I shall
live and am able I shall make it a point to come here every anniversary
of this night, bringing with me such creature comforts as I think may
prove acceptable."

"You said that before, but I thank you again," replied the ghost, at the
same time taking his hand and shaking it with a fervor not to be
expected in one so long dead, and in the world of spirits.

By this time the assembly had begun to pass out of the underground
place, and many of the ghosts-in fact all of the invited guests and
tramp ghosts faded away, and the young man rubbed his eyes to see where
they had gone. All that he could determine was that they had been there
and were gone.

They stood in the graveyard again, and the tramp ghost of Mr. Van Der
Dam, the man whose leg the reporter had been the means of restoring, bid
him a sorrowful good-bye. He shook his hand until the young man wished
in his heart that the ghost were a little less demonstrative. He wished
him the best of good fortunes, and saying that disappeared so suddenly
and completely that it made him dizzy.

He now became aware of a subdued murmur that passed all over the place.
The sociable ghost stood near him by the side of the stone from under
which he had exuded, so to speak, earlier in the night. He suddenly
dropped to his knees, regardless of the pebbles which might have hurt
the fleshless bones, and began rubbing the stone actively, while there
were sounds of moaning and sobbing heard all over the place, and in the
semi-darkness the young man saw forms crouching down by the different
headstones.

There was a sound like scouring and scraping, and then bright, livid
lines of light quivered and trembled along the different tombstones in
the form of words. At last the young man could not control his curiosity
any longer and asked the ghost to tell him what it all meant.

"Why just this. We have to come out of our graves every year and read our
own epitaphs. Then we have to write what we deserved in truth. I assure
you it is not a pleasant task, and we all wish that our sorrowing
friends would only be so very kind as not to put anything but our names
upon the stones.

"Nobody cares anyhow what is on another's gravestone, and if any stop
to read it it is simply to make fun of it. To read our own epitaphs and
know how little we merit the extravagant praise there is one of our
sharpest pangs. When we have shown a proper degree of shame and remorse
over them, then we are allowed a short time in which we can endeavor to
efface the lying records. We are given the privilege of scouring them
with sandpaper and holystone. We hope that when the undeserved epitaph
is all worn away we may be given our passports.

"I suppose you have noticed how much sooner a gravestone wears away than
a building stone? Now, here is a granite monument, and down there,
across the street, is a building with the whole front of the same stone,
quarried in the same year, some of it the same week. The house is as
good as ever, but look at the stone in the monument. That tells the
story.

"See that woman down there trying to rub out the lies that her family
put there. I wonder why it is that the survivors seem to feel
constrained to put all that stuff on the headstone?"

"I was just wondering," said the young man, "how it would be if any
ghost should outlive his or her stone. I heard there was a great fire
here once that destroyed many of them. And I know of a baker who took
three or four stones from a cemetery to bake his bread on. The names
were smoothed off, and I cannot exactly understand how it all is. Is it
that the dead are held for the sins of their survivors in putting all
the false, if fond, words there?"

"No, not at all. If it were not this it would be something else."

All this time the ghost was rubbing away at his own headstone with
greater vigor than one could have expected, and as the young man looked
at it the ghost said:

"Pretty tough work, but I have succeeded in rubbing out nearly half this
letter in only sixty years. This word is 'charitable,' and I never gave
a cent to anybody in charity. I told you I would explain. Well, here is
my epitaph, 'In memory of Captain, a pious and benevolent man, whose
noble and upright character, calm demeanor and charitable heart endeared
him to all who knew him. He passed away, leaving a sorrowing spouse to
whom he was devoted, in the surety of a life above. He was captain of
the _____, and engaged in the Liverpool and West India trade." This is a
pretty mess to fix up over your head, now isn't it? Piety and the West
India trade didn't go together in those days. Calm demeanor! Huh! They
called me 'Old Hurricane.' And I was worse than a pirate, for I was in
the slave trade. It is all over now, and the evil I did can't be undone,
but though it may seem long, there will come a time when I-even I-shall
have become fit for my passport.

"But let me tell you, young man, and try and remember what I say, if the
living only knew what the dead do there would be a deuced sight less
wickedness in the world. You know that th

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