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Ghosts Of Stukeley Castle
by
What possible interest could the dead have in anything that was here? Admitting that they had any, and that it was not the LIVING, whom the Barbarian had always found most inclined to haunt the past, would not a ghost of any decided convictions object to such a collection as his descendant had gathered in this gallery? Yonder idiot in silk and steel had blunderingly and cruelly persecuted his kinsman in leather and steel only a few panels distant. Would they care to meet here? And if their human weaknesses had died with them, what would bring them here at all? And if not THEM–who then? He stopped short. The door at the lower end of the gallery had opened! Not stealthily, not noiselessly, but in an ordinary fashion, and a number of figures, dressed in the habiliments of a bygone age, came trooping in. They did not glide in nor float in, but trampled in awkwardly, clumsily, and unfamiliarly, gaping about them as they walked. At the head was apparently a steward in a kind of livery, who stopped once or twice and seemed to be pointing out and explaining certain objects in the room. A flash of indignant intelligence filled the brain of the Barbarian! It seemed absurd!–impossible!–but it was true! It was a holiday excursion party of ghosts, being shown over Stukeley Castle by a ghostly Cicerone! And as his measured, monotonous voice rose on the Christmas morning air, it could be heard that he was actually showing off, not the antiquities of the Castle, but the MODERN IMPROVEMENTS!
“This ‘ere, gossips,”–the Barbarian instantly detected the fallacy of all the so-called mediaeval jargon he had read,–“is the Helectric Bell, which does away with our hold, hordinary ‘orn blowin’, and the hattendant waitin’ in the ‘all for the usual ‘Without there, who waits?’ which all of us was accustomed to in mortal flesh. You hobserve this button. I press it so, and it instantly rings a bell in the kitchen ‘all, and shows in fair letters the name of this ‘ere gallery–as we will see later. Will hany good dame or gaffer press the button? Will YOU, mistress?” said the Cicerone to a giggling, kerchief-coifed lass.
“Oi soy, Maudlin!–look out–will yer!–It’s the soime old gag as them bloomin’ knobs you ketched hold of when yer was ‘ere las’ Whitsuntide,” called out the mediaeval ‘Arry of the party.
“It is NOT the Galvanic-Magnetic machine in ‘is lordship’s library,” said the Cicerone, severely, “which is a mere toy for infants, and hold-fashioned. And we have ‘ere a much later invention. I open this little door, I turn this ‘andle–called a switch–and, has you perceive, the gallery is hinstantly hilluminated.”
There was a hoarse cry of astonishment from the assemblage. The Barbarian felt an awful thrill as this searching, insufferable light of the nineteenth century streamed suddenly upon the up-turned, vacant-eyed, and dull faces of those sightseers of the past. But there was no responsive gleam in their eyes.
“It be the sun,” gasped an old woman in a gray cloak.
“Toime to rouse out, Myryan, and make the foire,” said the mediaeval ‘Arry. The custodian smiled with superior toleration.
“But what do ‘ee want o’ my old lanthorne,” asked a yellow-jerkined stable boy, pointing to an old-fashioned horned lantern, tempus Edward III., “with this brave loight?”
“You know,” said the custodian, with condescending familiarity, “these mortals worship what they call ‘curios’ and the ‘antique,’ and ‘is lordship gave a matter of fifty pounds for that same lanthern. That’s what the modern folk come ‘ere to see–like as ye.”
“Oi’ve an old three-legged stool in Whitechapel oi’ll let his lordship ‘ave cheap–for five quid,” suggested the humorist.
“The ‘prentice wight knows not that he speaks truly. For ‘ere is a braver jest than ‘is. Good folks, wilt please ye to examine yon coffer?” pointing to an oaken chest.
“‘Tis but poor stuff, marry,” said Maudlin.
“‘Tis a coffer–the same being made in Wardour Street last year–‘is lordship gave one hundred pounds for it. Look at these would-be worm-holes,–but they were made with an AUGER. Marry, WE know what worm-holes are!”