Ghosts! There is a charm in the very word. Tales of gruesome apparitions told over a blazing fire at Christmas-time come back to one—tales told long years ago, when, after hearing them, one was almost afraid to go to bed; when one started at every shadow on the stairs and imagined it was some dark denizen of the spirit world come to carry us off; when, being fairly in bed and the light out, we drew the sheets over our heads to shut out the phantoms that appeared in the darkness.

From my earliest childhood I was always a firm believer in ghosts—the good old-fashioned ghost, I mean,—the unhappy lady or gentleman who appears at twelve o'clock at night with wailings and groans, and rattles chains and carries his or her head under his or her arm. That is the sort of ghost I like.

I have a contempt for the feeble ghost of to-day—the spirit that raps on tables and moves chairs, that writes letters backwards that no one can read, and never shows itself or behaves in a rational manner. The modern ghost is very degenerate.

My collaborator is a member of the Society for Psychical Research, so I must be careful what I say, or I shall be abused again. We had a grand sÉance on the evening of 16th June. It was held in the "Emperor's Room"—so called because the Emperor LeopoldI. is said to have slept there. His portrait is painted on the ceiling, which, by the way, is of wonderful Venetian stucco, with cupids and garlands of fruits and flowers all over it. It is a haunted room. It is not the Emperor that appears here, however, but a much more interesting sort of person—the White Lady. She had a cruel husband who threw her down the cliff under the ruin. Her body may still be seen, as she was turned into stone, a gigantic woman wrapped in a long white garment—everlastingly climbing up the cliff, but never getting any higher. Her spirit returns to the castle and searches for her lost children. On nights when the moon is full one can hear the rustling of her robes, as she wanders disconsolately about in the "Emperor's Room."

We carried out our sÉance on the most approved methods. Eight of us—my collaborator, the Energetic Lady, the Photographic Lady, Miss Umslopogaas, the two learned men, the Seal, and myself—sat round a little oval table with both our hands on it, and clasped each other's little fingers. The learned Dark Man calculated that there were eighty fingers on that table. "Better eighty fingers on one table than eighty tables on one finger" remarked our host. He was rather a nuisance (our host, I mean), as he insisted on walking about the room and smoking cigarettes. He also kept turning up the lamp (ghosts dislike much light, and it is necessary to respect their feelings) to see how we were getting on.

There was also a dog in the room. This dog rejoices in the name of "Tin-ho"—he is a Chinese animal. I believe he is the last of his race, or something of that sort, and is the most cherished possession of the Energetic Lady. He is one of the banes of my life—he, NapoleonI., and Wagner. I like animals—in fact, I love them—especially cats and dogs. But this dog is too much for me. I have made the most friendly overtures to him. I have called him by the most endearing terms. I have even learned some Italian (he only understands that language) especially for his benefit, and have said poverissima bellissima to him with a pathos that would have moved a stone statue to tears. But it is of no use. He is as unfriendly as ever, and treats me with contempt. Now I kick him, whenever the Energetic Lady is not anywhere near him, which is not very often, by the way.

I have not explained yet who Miss Umslopogaas is. She is a lady who is staying here, and her proper name is difficult to pronounce—at least, I cannot conquer it. I began by calling her Miss Asparagus, but that sounds too much like a vegetable, and is familiar besides. Umslopogaas is quite as much like what I can imagine her real name to be, and has the advantage of sounding more foreign.

Well, we sat round that table for an hour and a half. My collaborator was delighted at the beginning—she was sure the Seal was a perfect medium, as he trembled all over and felt cold. (I have my own private opinion about it.) The table, too, moved occasionally (no wonder, when the Seal was shaking like an aspen leaf), so she was convinced something was about to happen.

At last something did happen!

An unearthly shriek rang through the haunted chamber. There was a sound of scuffling and struggling, a smothered exclamation.

The Photographic Lady leaped a foot from her chair and showed a tendency to go into hysterics. The Seal's teeth chattered with fright.

But, after all, it was only our host who had trodden on the dog.

We sat on. The Photographic Lady flirted with the learned Fair Man, and Miss Umslopogaas pinched the little finger of the learned Dark Man; but no ghost appeared. I think there were too many of us, or we were not serious enough, or the vagaries of our host and the dog were too much for the spirits. But, in any case, our sÉance was a failure, and we had no manifestations at all.

We gave it up then, and took to telling ghost-stories. The Photographic Lady related an experience of her own. Some three or four years ago she went into the great banqueting hall in the evening, and there saw the figure of a man. He was of immense height, elderly, and with a long flowing beard, and his face was vividly impressed on her memory. He advanced towards her, and then suddenly disappeared. According to her own account she was not at all frightened. At the time she did not know who it was, but on visiting the church at Gradisca some time later, she recognised the ghost at once as the Della Torre who is carved in stone on the tomb there, an ancestor of her own.

The Energetic Lady had had a strange experience in the same room. She was there alone, and a chair began to move about of its own accord. It moved forwards—it moved backwards—it moved sideways, and then in a slow and stately manner it waltzed round and round. With her usual energy, she chased it, caught it, sat down on it, but it continued its antics, she still sitting on it. She said it was an uncomfortable sensation and confessed to feelings of alarm—in fact, she left the apartment in haste.

At this point the Seal said he should retire, as he did not like to talk of such things. Miss Umslopogaas also took her departure—she did not consider ghosts quite proper. She thought they should not appear in people's bedrooms uninvited. Some of them were so insufficiently clothed too!

The two learned men disputed on ghosts generally. They had different theories on the matter.

My collaborator listened with a look of supreme contempt. She does not care to relate her experiences to the common herd. I was so crushed by her superior manner that I was too modest to tell any story. I never saw a ghost myself, but an intimate friend of mine has had that pleasure.

Our host was not bashful, however. This is what he said: "I like ghosts, because they never come. If there are ten persons in a room, eight are fools, one is a rascal, the tenth might be all right ... but he is generally dead. I have no objection to his coming. Still, as 'Happiness is of a retired nature,' I think him very considerate never to do so."

I did not see any point in this, but every one else seemed to find it very amusing.

Suddenly the great clock in the tower began striking—slowly—twelve!

Then we all went to bed.

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We are all haunted by ghosts—ghosts of old friends, old scenes. We sit alone, and the past rises up before us. They are all with us again—the friends of our childhood, of our school-days, of our "Varsity" life. Once more we feel the warm clasp of their hands, once more we hear the merry voices and look into the kindly faces we knew long years ago.

Picture follows picture.

We see the old garden where we played as children, our brothers and sisters, our child-friends, the old house, the flowers, the green lawn. It is all so familiar, and yet it was all so long ago.

The scene changes: a long, low room, desks hacked with pocket-knives and stained with ink, a hot, drowsy afternoon, a hum of voices, the master's desk, the master himself in cap and gown, a crowd of boys. The scene changes again. Stately buildings appear before us, old courts and cloisters, the gleam of the river. Old familiar sounds ring in our ears: the thud of the oars in the rowlocks, the click of the cricket-bat, the tramp of feet on the football field.

Fair faces pass before us too. We hear the rustle of their dresses, their girlish laughter, their soft voices, we see the bright eyes that look into ours, the rosy lips that murmured words we shall never forget.

Where are they all—those friends of other days?

Gone—some dead—all scattered; we have lost sight of most of them. Some are sleeping on distant battlefields or beneath the waves of the hungry sea, some are preaching their message of peace in busy town or quiet village, some fighting with disease and death in the crowded hospitals of great cities, some working their way upwards through dusty law-courts or in foreign lands. But here—in Shadow-Land—they one and all come back to us.