OLD GHOSTS AND NEW.
Of old, around the whitening embers,
One, here and there, as yet remembers
The tales of Ghosts, at Christmas season,
Which once were wont to stagger Reason.
Those tales are told no more at Christmas,
Whose Ghosts are laid beyond the Isthmus
Of Suez, all beneath the billows
Of the Red Sea, on sandy pillows.
The Ghosts with eyes of flame and saucer
Are now as obsolete as Chaucer;
No Ghosts now rattle chains, nor blue light
Emit, but "Spirit Lights"—a new light.
White-sheeted Ghosts have grown mere fables.
Instead of groaning, Ghosts rap tables:
With smells of sulphur ne'er assail us;
With curious perfumes oft regale us.
They "mediums" raise by "levitation,"
And subject them to elongation,
And in and out of windows float them,
Two stories high, lords vow, we quote them.
Fruit, flowers, ice, other forms of matter,
On tables, in the dark, Ghosts scatter;
Live lobsters, wriggling eels, and so forth:
Thus their "so potent art" they show forth.
There is a lady, Mrs. Guppy,
Mark, shallow scientific puppy,
The heaviest she in London, marry,
Her, Spirits three miles long did carry.
Upon a table down they set her,
Within closed doors. What! you know better?
And we're all dupes or self-deceivers?
Yah, Sadducees and unbelievers!
Some Ghosts, do, mortal hands compelling,
Write letters in phonetic spelling.
Some others, on accordions, cunning
In music, Home, Sweet Home, play, punning.
The grisly Ghosts of old have vanished;
The ancient Bogies all are banished.
How much more credible and pleasant
Than the old Spirits are the present!