Phantasmagoria and Other Poems

CANTO IV
Hys Nouryture

 
“Oh, when I was a little Ghost,
      A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
      They gave us for our tea.”
 
 
“That story is in print!” I cried.
      “Don’t say it’s not, because
It’s known as well as Bradshaw’s Guide!”
(The Ghost uneasily replied
      He hardly thought it was).
 
 
“It’s not in Nursery Rhymes?  And yet
      I almost think it is —
‘Three little Ghosteses’ were set
‘On posteses,’ you know, and ate
      Their ‘buttered toasteses.’
 
 
“I have the book; so if you doubt it – ”
      I turned to search the shelf.
“Don’t stir!” he cried.  “We’ll do without it:
I now remember all about it;
      I wrote the thing myself.
 
 
“It came out in a ‘Monthly,’ or
      At least my agent said it did:
Some literary swell, who saw
It, thought it seemed adapted for
      The Magazine he edited.
 
 
“My father was a Brownie, Sir;
      My mother was a Fairy.
The notion had occurred to her,
The children would be happier,
      If they were taught to vary.
 
 
“The notion soon became a craze;
      And, when it once began, she
Brought us all out in different ways —
One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
      Another was a Banshee;
 
 
“The Fetch and Kelpie went to school
      And gave a lot of trouble;
Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),
      A Goblin, and a Double —
 
 
“(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,”
      He added with a yawn,
“I’ll take a pinch) – next came an Elf,
And then a Phantom (that’s myself),
      And last, a Leprechaun.
 
 
“One day, some Spectres chanced to call,
      Dressed in the usual white:
I stood and watched them in the hall,
And couldn’t make them out at all,
      They seemed so strange a sight.
 
 
“I wondered what on earth they were,
      That looked all head and sack;
But Mother told me not to stare,
And then she twitched me by the hair,
      And punched me in the back.
 
 
“Since then I’ve often wished that I
      Had been a Spectre born.
But what’s the use?”  (He heaved a sigh.)
“They are the ghost-nobility,
      And look on us with scorn.
 
 
“My phantom-life was soon begun:
      When I was barely six,
I went out with an older one —
And just at first I thought it fun,
      And learned a lot of tricks.
 
 
“I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers —
      Wherever I was sent:
I’ve often sat and howled for hours,
Drenched to the skin with driving showers,
      Upon a battlement.
 
 
“It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan
      When you begin to speak:
This is the newest thing in tone – ”
And here (it chilled me to the bone)
      He gave an awful squeak.
 
 
“Perhaps,” he added, “to your ear
      That sounds an easy thing?
Try it yourself, my little dear!
It took me something like a year,
      With constant practising.
 
 
“And when you’ve learned to squeak, my man,
      And caught the double sob,
You’re pretty much where you began:
Just try and gibber if you can!
      That’s something like a job!
 
 
“I’ve tried it, and can only say
      I’m sure you couldn’t do it, e-
ven if you practised night and day,
Unless you have a turn that way,
      And natural ingenuity.
 
 
“Shakspeare I think it is who treats
      Of Ghosts, in days of old,
Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets,’
Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets —
      They must have found it cold.
 
 
“I’ve often spent ten pounds on stuff,
      In dressing as a Double;
But, though it answers as a puff,
It never has effect enough
      To make it worth the trouble.
 
 
“Long bills soon quenched the little thirst
      I had for being funny.
The setting-up is always worst:
Such heaps of things you want at first,
      One must be made of money!
 
 
“For instance, take a Haunted Tower,
      With skull, cross-bones, and sheet;
Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour,
Condensing lens of extra power,
      And set of chains complete:
 
 
“What with the things you have to hire —
      The fitting on the robe —
And testing all the coloured fire —
The outfit of itself would tire
      The patience of a Job!
 
 
“And then they’re so fastidious,
      The Haunted-House Committee:
I’ve often known them make a fuss
Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,
      Or even from the City!
 
 
“Some dialects are objected to —
      For one, the Irish brogue is:
And then, for all you have to do,
One pound a week they offer you,
      And find yourself in Bogies!”
 

CANTO V
Byckerment

 
“Don’t they consult the ‘Victims,’ though?”
      I said.  “They should, by rights,
Give them a chance – because, you know,
The tastes of people differ so,
      Especially in Sprites.”
 
 
The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
      “Consult them?  Not a bit!
’Twould be a job to drive one wild,
To satisfy one single child —
      There’d be no end to it!”
 
 
“Of course you can’t leave children free,”
      Said I, “to pick and choose:
But, in the case of men like me,
I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be
      Allowed to state his views.”
 
 
He said “It really wouldn’t pay —
      Folk are so full of fancies.
We visit for a single day,
And whether then we go, or stay,
      Depends on circumstances.
 
 
“And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’
      Before the thing’s arranged,
Still, if he often quits his post,
Or is not a well-mannered Ghost,
      Then you can have him changed.
 
 
“But if the host’s a man like you —
      I mean a man of sense;
And if the house is not too new – ”
“Why, what has that,” said I, “to do
      With Ghost’s convenience?”
 
 
“A new house does not suit, you know —
      It’s such a job to trim it:
But, after twenty years or so,
The wainscotings begin to go,
      So twenty is the limit.”
 
 
“To trim” was not a phrase I could
      Remember having heard:
“Perhaps,” I said, “you’ll be so good
As tell me what is understood
      Exactly by that word?”
 
 
“It means the loosening all the doors,”
      The Ghost replied, and laughed:
“It means the drilling holes by scores
In all the skirting-boards and floors,
      To make a thorough draught.
 
 
“You’ll sometimes find that one or two
      Are all you really need
To let the wind come whistling through —
But here there’ll be a lot to do!”
      I faintly gasped “Indeed!
 
 
“If I’d been rather later, I’ll
      Be bound,” I added, trying
(Most unsuccessfully) to smile,
“You’d have been busy all this while,
      Trimming and beautifying?”
 
 
“Why, no,” said he; “perhaps I should
      Have stayed another minute —
But still no Ghost, that’s any good,
Without an introduction would
      Have ventured to begin it.
 
 
“The proper thing, as you were late,
      Was certainly to go:
But, with the roads in such a state,
I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait
      For half an hour or so.”
 
 
“Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I cried.  Instead
      Of answering my question,
“Well, if you don’t know that,” he said,
“Either you never go to bed,
      Or you’ve a grand digestion!
 
 
“He goes about and sits on folk
      That eat too much at night:
His duties are to pinch, and poke,
And squeeze them till they nearly choke.”
      (I said “It serves them right!”)
 
 
“And folk who sup on things like these – ”
      He muttered, “eggs and bacon —
Lobster – and duck – and toasted cheese —
If they don’t get an awful squeeze,
      I’m very much mistaken!
 
 
“He is immensely fat, and so
      Well suits the occupation:
In point of fact, if you must know,
We used to call him years ago,
      The Mayor and Corporation!
 
 
“The day he was elected Mayor
      I know that every Sprite meant
To vote for me, but did not dare —
He was so frantic with despair
      And furious with excitement.
 
 
“When it was over, for a whim,
      He ran to tell the King;
And being the reverse of slim,
A two-mile trot was not for him
      A very easy thing.
 
 
“So, to reward him for his run
      (As it was baking hot,
And he was over twenty stone),
The King proceeded, half in fun,
      To knight him on the spot.”
 
 
“’Twas a great liberty to take!”
      (I fired up like a rocket).
“He did it just for punning’s sake:
‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make
      A pun, would pick a pocket!’”
 
 
“A man,” said he, “is not a King.”
      I argued for a while,
And did my best to prove the thing —
The Phantom merely listening
      With a contemptuous smile.
 
 
At last, when, breath and patience spent,
      I had recourse to smoking —
“Your aim,” he said, “is excellent:
But – when you call it argument—
      Of course you’re only joking?”
 
 
Stung by his cold and snaky eye,
      I roused myself at length
To say “At least I do defy
The veriest sceptic to deny
      That union is strength!”
 
 
“That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay – ”
      I listened in all meekness —
“Union is strength, I’m bound to say;
In fact, the thing’s as clear as day;
      But onions are a weakness.”
 

CANTO VI
Dyscomfyture

 
As one who strives a hill to climb,
      Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
      And votes the thing a bore:
 
 
Yet, having once begun to try,
      Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky
      Wherein he hopes to rest:
 
 
Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
      With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
      Although in breath more scant:
 
 
Who, climbing, gains at length the place
      That crowns the upward track.
And, entering with unsteady pace,
Receives a buffet in the face
      That lands him on his back:
 
 
And feels himself, like one in sleep,
      Glide swiftly down again,
A helpless weight, from steep to steep,
Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,
      He drops upon the plain —
 
 
So I, that had resolved to bring
      Conviction to a ghost,
And found it quite a different thing
From any human arguing,
      Yet dared not quit my post
 
 
But, keeping still the end in view
      To which I hoped to come,
I strove to prove the matter true
By putting everything I knew
      Into an axiom:
 
 
Commencing every single phrase
      With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’
I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
About the syllogistic maze,
      Unconscious where I was.
 
 
Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap:
      Don’t bluster any more.
Now do be cool and take a nap!
Such a ridiculous old chap
      Was never seen before!
 
 
“You’re like a man I used to meet,
      Who got one day so furious
In arguing, the simple heat
Scorched both his slippers off his feet!”
      I said “That’s very curious!”
 
 
“Well, it is curious, I agree,
      And sounds perhaps like fibs:
But still it’s true as true can be —
As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he.
      I said “My name’s not Tibbs.”
 
 
“Not Tibbs!” he cried – his tone became
      A shade or two less hearty —
“Why, no,” said I.  “My proper name
Is Tibbets – ”  “Tibbets?”  “Aye, the same.”
      “Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!”
 
 
With that he struck the board a blow
      That shivered half the glasses.
“Why couldn’t you have told me so
Three quarters of an hour ago,
      You prince of all the asses?
 
 
“To walk four miles through mud and rain,
      To spend the night in smoking,
And then to find that it’s in vain —
And I’ve to do it all again —
      It’s really too provoking!
 
 
“Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began
      To mutter some excuse.
“Who can have patience with a man
That’s got no more discretion than
      An idiotic goose?
 
 
“To keep me waiting here, instead
      Of telling me at once
That this was not the house!” he said.
“There, that’ll do – be off to bed!
      Don’t gape like that, you dunce!”
 
 
“It’s very fine to throw the blame
      On me in such a fashion!
Why didn’t you enquire my name
The very minute that you came?”
      I answered in a passion.
 
 
“Of course it worries you a bit
      To come so far on foot —
But how was I to blame for it?”
“Well, well!” said he.  “I must admit
      That isn’t badly put.
 
 
“And certainly you’ve given me
      The best of wine and victual —
Excuse my violence,” said he,
“But accidents like this, you see,
      They put one out a little.
 
 
“’Twas my fault after all, I find —
      Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”
The name was hardly to my mind,
But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
      I let the matter drop.
 
 
“Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!
      When I am gone, perhaps
They’ll send you some inferior Sprite,
Who’ll keep you in a constant fright
      And spoil your soundest naps.
 
 
“Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick;
      Then, if he leers and chuckles,
You just be handy with a stick
(Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick)
      And rap him on the knuckles!
 
 
“Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon!
      Perhaps you’re not aware
That, if you don’t behave, you’ll soon
Be chuckling to another tune —
      And so you’d best take care!’
 
 
“That’s the right way to cure a Sprite
      Of such like goings-on —
But gracious me!  It’s getting light!
Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”
      A nod, and he was gone.