Part 34 (1/2)

_Miss Gryll._ That is an odd term, doctor.

_The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ It relates, I imagine, to some graceful gesture of pantomimic dancing: for beautiful hostesses were often accomplished dancers. Virgil's Copa, which, by the way, is only half panegyrical, gives us, nevertheless, a pleasant picture in this kind It seems to have been one of the great attractions of a Roman tavern: and the host, in looking out for a wife, was probably much influenced by her possession of this accomplishment. The dancing, probably, was of that kind which the moderns call _demi-caractere_, and was performed in picturesque costume----

The doctor would have gone off in a dissertation on dancing hostesses, but Miss Gryll recalled him to the story, which he continued, in the words of Niceros:

'But, by Hercules, mine was pure love; her manners charmed me, and her friendliness. If I wanted money, if she had earned an _as_, she gave me a _semis_. If I had money, I gave it into her keeping. Never was woman more trustworthy. Her husband died at a farm which they possessed in the country. I left no means untried to visit her in her distress; for friends are shown in adversity. It so happened that my master had gone to Capua, to dispose of some cast-off finery. Seizing the opportunity, 1 persuaded a guest of ours to accompany me to the fifth milestone. He was a soldier, strong as Pluto. We set off before c.o.c.kcrow; the moon shone like day; we pa.s.sed through a line of tombs. My man began some ceremonies before the pillars. I sat down, singing, and counting the stars. Then, as I looked round to my comrade, he stripped himself, and laid his clothes by the wayside. My heart was in my nose: I could no more move than a dead man. But he walked three times round his clothes, and was suddenly changed into a wolf. Do not think I am jesting. No man's patrimony would tempt me to lie. But, as I had begun to say, as soon as he was changed into a wolf, he set up a long howl, and fled into the woods. I remained awhile, bewildered; then I approached to take up his clothes, but they were turned into stone. Who was dying of fear but I? But I drew my sword, and went on cutting shadows till I arrived at the farm. I entered the narrow way. The life was half boiled out of me; perspiration ran down me like a torrent: my eyes were dead. I could scarcely come to myself. My Melissa began to wonder why I walked so late; ”and if you had come sooner,” she said, ”you might at least have helped us; for a wolf entered the farm and fell on the sheep, tearing them, and leaving them all bleeding. He escaped; but with cause to remember us; for our man drove a spear through his neck.” When I heard these things I could not think of sleep; but hurried homeward with the dawn; and when I came to the place where the clothes had been turned into stone, I found nothing but blood.

'When I reached home, my soldier was in bed, lying like an ox, and a surgeon was dressing his neck. I felt that he was a turnskin, and I could never after taste bread with him, not if you would have killed me. Let those who doubt of such things look into them. If I lie, may the wrath of all your Genii fall on me.'

This story being told, Trimalchio, the lord of the feast, after giving his implicit adhesion to it, and affirming the indisputable veracity of Niceros, relates another, as a fact of his own experience.

'While yet I wore long hair, for from a boy I led a Chian life,{1} our little Iphis, the delight of the family, died; by Hercules, a pearl; quick, beautiful, one of ten thousand. While, therefore, his unhappy mother was weeping for him, and we all were plunged in sorrow, suddenly witches came in pursuit of him, as dogs, you may suppose, of a hare. We had then in the house a Cappadocian, tall, brave to audacity, capable of lifting up an angry bull. He boldly, with a drawn sword, rushed out through the gate, having his left hand carefully wrapped up, and drove his sword through a woman's bosom; here as it were; safe be what I touch! We heard a groan; but, a.s.suredly, I will not lie, we did not see the women. But our stout fellow returning, threw himself into bed, and all his body was livid, as if he had been beaten with whips; for the evil hand had touched him. We closed the gate, and resumed our watch over the dead; but when the mother went to embrace the body of her son, she touched it, and found it was only a figure, of which all the interior was straw, no heart, nothing. The witches had stolen away the boy, and left in his place a straw-stuffed image. I ask you--it is impossible not--to believe, that there are women with more than mortal knowledge, nocturnal women, who can make that which is uppermost downmost. But our tall hero after this was never again of his own colour; indeed, after a few days, he died raving.'

1 Free boys wore long hair. A Chian life is a delicate and luxurious life. Trimalchio implies that, though he began life as a slave, he was a pet in the household, and was treated as if he had been free.

'We wondered and believed,' says a guest who heard the story, 'and kissing the table, we implored the nocturnals to keep themselves to themselves, while we were returning from supper.'

_Miss Gryll._ Those are pleasant stories, doctor; and the peculiar style of the narrators testifies to their faith in their own marvels. Still, as you say, they are not ghost stories.

_Lord Curryfin._ Shakespeare's are glorious ghosts, and would make good stories, if they were not so familiarly known. There is a ghost much to my mind in Beaumont and Fletcher's _Lover's Progress_. Cleander has a beautiful wife, Calista, and a friend, Lisander, Calista and Lisander love each other, _en tout bien, tout honneur_. Lisander, in self-defence and in fair fight, kills a court favourite, and is obliged to conceal himself in the country. Cleander and Dorilaus, Calista's father, travel in search of him. They pa.s.s the night at a country inn. The jovial host had been long known to Cleander, who had extolled him to Dorilaus; but on inquiring for him they find he has been dead three weeks. They call for more wine, dismiss their attendants, and sit up alone, chatting of various things, and, among others, of mine host, whose skill on the lute and in singing is remembered and commended by Cleander. While they are talking, a lute is struck within; followed by a song, beginning

'Tis late and cold, stir up the fire,-- Sit close, and draw the table nigher: Be merry! and drink wine that's old.

And ending

Welcome, welcome, shall go round, And I shall smile, though underground.

And when the song ceases, the host's ghost enters. They ask him why he appears. He answers, to wait once more on Cleander, and to entreat a courtesy--

--to see my body buried In holy ground: for now I lie unhallowed, By the clerk's fault: let my new grave be made Amongst good fellows, that have died before me, And merry hosts of my kind.

Cleander promises that it shall be done; and Dorilaus, who is a merry old gentleman throughout the play, adds--

And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeral.

Cleander asks him--

Is't in your power, some hours before my death, To give me warning?

The host replies--

I cannot tell you truly: But if I can, so much on earth I loved you, I will appear again.

In a subsequent scene the ghost forewarns him, and he is soon after a.s.sa.s.sinated: not premeditatedly, but as an accident, in the working out, by subordinate characters, of a plot to bring into question the purity of Calista's love for Lisander.

_Miss Ilex._ In my young days ghosts were so popular that the first question asked about any new play was, Is there a ghost in it? The _Castle Spectre_ had set this fas.h.i.+on. It was one of the first plays I saw, when I was a very little girl. The opening of the folding-doors disclosing the illuminated oratory; the extreme beauty of the actress who personated the ghost; the solemn music to which she moved slowly forward to give a silent blessing to her kneeling daughter; and the chorus of female voices chanting _Jubilate;_ made an impression on me which no other scene of the kind has ever made. That is my ghost, but I have no ghost story worth telling.

_Mr. Falconer._ There are many stories in which the supernatural is only apparent, and is finally explained. But some of these, especially the novels of Brockden Brown, carry the principle of terror to its utmost limits. What can be more appalling than his _Wielandt_ It is one of the few tales in which the final explanation of the apparently supernatural does not destroy or diminish the original effect.

_Miss Gryll._ Generally, I do not like that explaining away. I can accord a ready faith to the supernatural in all its forms, as I do to the adventures of Ulysses and Orlando. I should be sorry to see the enchantments of Circe expounded into sleights of hand.

_The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ I agree with you, _Miss Gryll._ I do not like to find a ghost, which has frightened me through two volumes, turned into a c.o.c.k Lane ghost in the third.

_Miss Gryll._ We are talking about ghosts, but we have not a ghost story. I want a ghost story.