THE FALL OF J. W. BEANE.
A GHOST STORY.
In all the Eastern hemisphere
You would n’t find a knight, a peer,
A viscount, earl or baronet,
A marquis or a duke, nor yet
A prince, or emperor, or king,
Or sultan, czar, or anything
That could in family pride surpass
J. Wentworth Beane of Boston, Mass.
His family tree could far outscale
The bean-stalk in the fairy tale;
And Joseph’s coat would pale before
The blazon’d coat-of-arms he bore,
The arms of his old ancestor,
One Godfrey Beane, “who crossed, you know,
About two hundred years ago.”
He had it stamped, engraved, embossed,
Without the least regard to cost,
Upon his house, upon his gate,
Upon his table-cloth, his plate,
Upon his knocker, and his mat,
Upon his watch, inside his hat;
On scarf-pin, handkerchief, and screen,
And cards; in short, J. Wentworth Beane
Contrived to have old Godfrey’s crest
On everything that he possessed.
And lastly, when he died, his will
Proved to contain a codicil
Directing that a sum be spent
To carve it on his monument.
But if you think this ends the scene
You little know J. Wentworth Beane.
To judge him by the common host
Is reckoning without his ghost.
And it is something that befell
His ghost I chiefly have to tell.
At midnight of the very day
They laid J. Wentworth Beane away,
No sooner had the clock come round
To 12 P. M. than from the ground
Arose a spectre, lank and lean,
With frigid air and haughty mien;
No other than J. Wentworth Beane,
Unchanged in all, except his pride—
If anything, intensified.
He looked about him with that air
Of supercilious despair
That very stuck-up people wear
At some society affair
When no one in their set is there.
Then, after brushing from his sleeves
Some bits of mould and clinging leaves,
And lightly dusting off his shoe,
The iron gate he floated through,
Just looking back the clock to note,
As one who fears to miss a boat.
Ten minutes later found him on
The ghost’s Cunarder—“Oregon;”
And ten days later by spook time
He heard the hour of midnight chime
From out the tower of Beanley Hall,
And stood within the grave-yard wall
Beside a stone, moss-grown and green,
On which these simple words were seen:
In Memory
Sir Godfrey Beane.
The while he gazed in thought serene
A little ghost of humble mien,
Unkempt and crooked, bent and spare,
Accosted him with cringing air:
“Most noble sir, ’t is plain to see
You are not of the likes of me;
You are a spook of high degree.”
“My good man,” cried J. Wentworth B.,
“Leave me a little while, I pray,
I’ve travelled very far to-day,
And I desire to be alone
With him who sleeps beneath this stone.
I cannot rest till I have seen
My ancestor, Sir Godfrey Beane.”
“Your ancestor! How can that be?”
Exclaimed the little ghost, “when he,
Last of his line, was drowned at sea
Two hundred years ago; this stone
Is to his memory alone.
I, and I only, saw his end.
As he, my master and my friend,
Leaned o’er the vessel’s side one night
I pushed him—no, it was not right,
I own that I was much to blame;
I donned his clothes, and took the name
Of Beane—I also took his gold,
About five thousand pounds all told;
And so to Boston, Mass., I came
To found a family and name—
I, who in former times had been
Sir Godfrey’s—”
“Wretch, what do you mean!
Sir Godfrey’s what?” gasped Wentworth Beane.
“Sir Godfrey’s valet!”
That same night,
When the ghost steamer sailed, you might
Among the passengers have seen
A ghost of very abject mien,
Faded and shrunk, forlorn and frayed,
The shadow of his former shade,
Who registered in steerage class,
J. W. Beane of Boston, Mass.
Now, gentle reader, do not try
To guess the family which I
Disguise as Beane—enough that they
Exist on Beacon Hill to-day,
In sweet enjoyment of their claims—
It is not well to mention names.