Part II: Showing What Is Meant by a Flow of Spirits

At first the ghosts were somewhat shy,Coming when none but Knott was nigh,And people said 'twas all their eye,(Or rather his) a flam, the slyDigestion's machination;Some recommended a wet sheet,Some a nice broth of pounded peat,Some a cold flat-iron to the feet,Some a decoction of lamb's-bleat,Some a southwesterly grain of wheat;Meat was by some pronounced unmeet,Others thought fish most indiscreet,And that 'twas worse than all to eatOf vegetables, sour or sweet,(Except, perhaps, the skin of beat,)In such a concatenation:One quack his button gently plucksAnd murmurs "biliary ducks!"Says Knott, "I never ate one;"But all, though brimming full of wrath,Homœo, Allo, Hydropath,Concurred in this--that t' other's pathTo death's door was the straight oneStill, spite of medical advice,The ghosts came thicker, and a spiceOf mischief grew apparent;Nor did they only come at night,But seemed to fancy broad daylight,Till Knott, in horror and affright,His unoffending hair rent;Whene'er with handkerchief on lap,He made his elbow-chair a trap,To catch an after-dinner nap,The spirits, always on the tap,Would, make a sudden rap, rap, rap,The half-spun cord of sleep to snap,(And what is life without its napBut threadbareness and mere mishap?)As 't were with a percussion capThe trouble's climax capping;It seemed a party dried and grimOf mummies had come to visit him,Each getting off from every limbIts multitudinous wrapping;Scratchings sometimes the walls ran round,The merest penny-weights of sound;Sometimes 'twas only by the poundThey carried on their dealing,A thumping 'neath the parlor floor,Thump-bump-thump-bumping o'er and o'er,As if the vegetables in store,(Quiet and orderly before,)Were all together pealing;You would have thought the thing was doneBy the spirit of some son of a gun,And that a forty-two pounder,Or that the ghost which made such soundsCould be none other than John Pounds,Of Ragged Schools the founder.

Through three gradations of affright,The awful noises reached their height;At first they knocked nocturnally,Then, for some reason, changing quite,(As mourners, after six months' flight,Turn suddenly from dark to light,)Began to knock diurnally,And last, combining all their stocks,(Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,)Into one Chaos (father of Nox,)Nocte pluit--they showered knocks,And knocked, knocked, knocked eternallyEver upon the go, like buoys,(Wooden sea-urchins,) all Knott's joys,They turned to troubles and a noiseThat preyed on him internally.

Soon they grew wider in their scope;Whenever Knott a door would ope,It would ope not, or else elopeAnd fly back (curbless as a tropeOnce started down a stanza's slopeBy a bard that gave it too much rope--)Like a clap of thunder slamming;And, when kind Jenny brought his hat,(She always, when he walked, did that,)Just as upon his head it sat,Submitting to his settling pat--Some unseen hand would jam it flat,Or give it such a furious batThat eyes and nose went crammingUp out of sight, and consequently,As when in life it paddled free,His beaver caused much damning;If these things seemed o'erstrained to be,Read the account of Docter Dee,'Tis in our college library;Read Wesley's circumstantial plea,And Mrs. Crowe, more like a bee,Sucking the nightshade's honeyed fee,And Stilling's Pneumatology;Consult Scot, Glanvil, and grave Wierus,and both Mathers; further, seeWebster, Gasaubon, James First's treatise,a right royal Q. E. D.Writ with the moon in perigee,Bodin de Demonomanie--(Accent that last line gingerly)All full of learning as the seaOf fishes, and all disagree,Save in Sathanas apage!Or, what will surely put a fleaIn unbelieving ears--with glee,Out of a paper (sent to meBy some friend who forgot to P...A... Y...,--I use cryptographyLest I his vengeful pen should dree--His P... O... S... T... A... G... E...)Things to the same effect I cut,About the tantrums of a ghost,Not more than three weeks since, at most,Near Stratford, in Connecticut.

Knott's Upas daily spread its roots,Sent up on all sides livelier shoots,And bore more pestilential fruits;The ghosts behaved like downright brutes,They snipped holes in his Sunday suits,Practised all night on octave flutes,Put peas (not peace) into his boots,Whereof grew corns in season,They scotched his sheets, and, what was worse,Stuck his silk night-cap full of burs,Till he, in language plain and terse,(But much unlike a Bible verse,)Swore he should lose his reason.

The tables took to spinning, too,Perpetual yarns, and arm-chairs grewTo prophets and apostles;One footstool vowed that only heOf law and gospel held the key,That teachers of whate'er degreeTo whom opinion bows the kneeWeren't fit to teach Truth's a. b. c.And were (the whole lot) to a T.Mere fogies all and fossils;A teapoy, late the propertyOf Knox's Aunt Keziah,(Whom Jenny most irreverentlyHad nicknamed her aunt-tipathy)With tips emphatic claimed to beThe prophet Jeremiah;The tins upon the kitchen-wall,Turned tintinnabulators all,And things that used to come at callFor simple household services,Began to hop and whirl and prance,Fit to put out of countenanceThe Commis and Grisettes of FranceOr Turkey's dancing Dervises.

Of course such doings, far and wide,With rumors filled the country-side,And (as it is our nation's prideTo think a Truth not verifiedTill with majorities allied,)Parties sprang up, affirmed, denied,And candidates with questions pliedWho, like the circus-riders, triedAt once both hobbies to bestride,And each with his opponent viedIn being inexplicit.Earnest inquirers multiplied;Folks, whose tenth cousins lately died,Wrote letters long, and Knott replied.All who could either walk or ride,Gathered to wonder or deride,And paid the house a visit;Horses were at his pine-trees tied,Mourners in every corner sighed,Widows brought children there that cried,Swarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed,(People Knott never could abide,)Into each hole and cranny priedWith strings of questions cut and driedFrom the Devout Inquirer's Guide,For the wise spirits to decide--As, for example, is itTrue that the damned are fried or boiled?Was the Earth's axis greased or oiled?Who cleaned the moon when it was soiled?How baldness might be cured or foiled?How heal diseased potatoes?Did spirits have the sense of smell?Where would departed spinsters dwell?If the late Zenas Smith were well?If Earth were solid or a shell?Were spirits fond of Doctor Fell?Did the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell?What remedy would bugs expel?If Paine's invention were a sell?Did spirits by Webster's system spell?Was it a sin to be a belle?Did dancing sentence folks to hell?If so, then where most torture fell--On little toes or great toes?If life's true seat were in the brain?Did Ensign mean to marry Jane?By whom, in fact, was Morgan slain?Could matter ever suffer pain?What would take out a cherry-stain?Who picked the pocket of Seth Crane,Of Waldo precinct, State of Maine?Was Sir John Franklin sought in vain?Did primitive Christians ever train?What was the family-name of Cain?Them spoons, were they by Betty ta'en?Would earth-worm poultice cure a sprain?Was Socrates so dreadful plain?What teamster guided Charles's wain?Was Uncle Ethan mad or sane,And could his will in force remain?If not, what counsel to retain?Did Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain?Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine?Were ducks discomforted by rain?How did Britannia rule the main?Was Jonas coming back again?

Was vital truth upon the wane?Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain?Who was our Huldah's chosen swain?Did none have teeth pulled without payin'Ere ether was invented?Whether mankind would not agree,If the universe were tuned in C.?What was it ailed Lucindy's knee?Whether folks eat folks in Feejee?Whether his name would end with T.?If Saturn's rings were two or three,And what bump in PhrenologyThey truly represented?These problems dark, wherein they groped,Wherewith man's reason vainly coped,Now that the spirit-world was oped,In all humility they hopedWould be resolved instanter;Each of the miscellaneous routBrought his, or her, own little doubt,And wished to pump the spirits out,Through his, or her, own private spout,Into his, or her decanter.