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Phantasmagoria

Canto I — The Trystyng

One winter night, at half-past nine,Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,I had come home, too late to dine,And supper, with cigars and wine,Was waiting in the study.There was a strangeness in the room,And Something white and wavyWas standing near me in the gloom —I took it for the carpet-broomLeft by that careless slavey.But presently the Thing beganTo shiver and to sneeze:On which I said "Come, come, my man!That's a most inconsiderate plan.Less noise there, if you please!""I've caught a cold," the Thing replies,"Out there upon the landing."I turned to look in some surprise,And there, before my very eyes,A little Ghost was standing!He trembled when he caught my eye,And got behind a chair."How came you here," I said, "and why?I never saw a thing so shy.Come out! Don't shiver there!"He said "I'd gladly tell you how,And also tell you why;But" (here he gave a little bow)You're in so bad a temper now,You'd think it all a lie."And as to being in a fright,Allow me to remarkThat Ghosts have just as good a rightIn every way, to fear the light,As Men to fear the dark.""No plea," said I, "can well excuseSuch cowardice in you:For Ghosts can visit when they choose,Whereas we Humans ca'n't refuseTo grant the interview."He said "A flutter of alarmIs not unnatural, is it?I really feared you meant some harm:But, now I see that you are calm,Let me explain my visit."Houses are classed, I beg to state,According to the numberOf Ghosts that they accommodate:(The Tenant merely counts as weight ,With Coals and other lumber)."This is a 'one-ghost' house, and youWhen you arrived last summer,May have remarked a Spectre whoWas doing all that Ghosts can doTo welcome the new-comer."In Villas this is always done —However cheaply rented:For, though of course there's less of funWhen there is only room for one,Ghosts have to be contented."That Spectre left you on the Third —Since then you've not been haunted:For, as he never sent us word,'Twas quite by accident we heardThat any one was wanted."A Spectre has first choice, by right,In filling up a vacancy;Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite —If all these fail them, they inviteThe nicest Ghoul that they can see."The Spectres said the place was low,And that you kept bad wine:So, as a Phantom had to go,And I was first, of course, you know,I couldn't well decline.""No doubt," said I, "they settled whoWas fittest to be sentYet still to choose a brat like you,To haunt a man of forty-two,Was no great compliment!""I'm not so young, Sir," he replied,"As you might think. The fact is,In caverns by the water-side,And other places that I've tried,I've had a lot of practice:"But I have never taken yetA strict domestic part,And in my flurry I forgetThe Five Good Rules of EtiquetteWe have to know by heart."My sympathies were warming fastTowards the little fellow:He was so utterly aghastAt having found a Man at last,And looked so scared and yellow."At least," I said, "I'm glad to findA Ghost is not a dumb thing!But pray sit down: you'll feel inclined(If, like myself, you have not dined)To take a snack of something:"Though, certainly, you don't appearA thing to offer food to!And then I shall be glad to hear —If you will say them loud and clear —The Rules that you allude to.""Thanks! You shall hear them by and by.This is a piece of luck!""What may I offer you?" said I."Well, since you are so kind, I'll tryA little bit of duck."One slice! And may I ask you forAnother drop of gravy?"I sat and looked at him in awe,For certainly I never sawA thing so white and wavy.And still he seemed to grow more white,More vapoury, and wavier —Seen in the dim and flickering light,As he proceeded to reciteHis "Maxims of Behaviour."

Canto II — Hys Fyve Rules

"My First — but don't suppose," he said,"I'm setting you a riddle —Is — if your Victim be in bed,Don't touch the curtains at his head,But take them in the middle,"And wave them slowly in and out,While drawing them asunder;And in a minute's time, no doubt,He'll raise his head and look aboutWith eyes of wrath and wonder."And here you must on no pretenceMake the first observation.Wait for the Victim to commence:No Ghost of any common senseBegins a conversation."If he should say 'How came you here ?'(The way that you began, Sir,)In such a case your course is clear —'On the bat's back, my little dear !'Is the appropriate answer."If after this he says no more,You'd best perhaps curtail yourExertions — go and shake the door,And then, if he begins to snore,You'll know the thing's a failure."By day, if he should be alone —At home or on a walk —You merely give a hollow groan,To indicate the kind of toneIn which you mean to talk."But if you find him with his friends,The thing is rather harder.In such a case success dependsOn picking up some candle-ends,Or butter, in the larder."With this you make a kind of slide(It answers best with suet),On which you must contrive to glide,And swing yourself from side to side —One soon learns how to do it."The Second tells us what is rightIn ceremonious calls:—'First burn a blue or crimson light '(A thing I quite forgot to-night),'Then scratch the door or walls. '"I said "You'll visit here no more,If you attempt the Guy.I'll have no bonfires on my floor —And, as for scratching at the door,I'd like to see you try!""The Third was written to protectThe interests of the Victim,And tells us, as I recollect,To treat him with a grave respect,And not to contradict him.""That's plain," said I, "as Tare and Tret,To any comprehension:I only wish some Ghosts I've metWould not so constantly forgetThe maxim that you mention!""Perhaps," he said, "you first transgressedThe laws of hospitality:All Ghosts instinctively detestThe Man that fails to treat his guestWith proper cordiality."If you address a Ghost as 'Thing!'Or strike him with a hatchet,He is permitted by the KingTo drop all formal parleying —And then you're sure to catch it!"The Fourth prohibits trespassingWhere other Ghosts are quartered:And those convicted of the thing(Unless when pardoned by the King)Must instantly be slaughtered."That simply means 'be cut up small':Ghosts soon unite anew.The process scarcely hurts at all —Not more than when you 're what you call'Cut up' by a Review."The Fifth is one you may preferThat I should quote entire:—The King must be addressed as 'Sir.'This, from a simple courtier,Is all the laws require:"But, should you wish to do the thingWith out-and-out politeness,Accost him as 'My Goblin King!And always use, in answering,The phrase ' Your Royal Whiteness!'"I'm getting rather hoarse, I fear,After so much reciting :So, if you don't object, my dear,We'll try a glass of bitter beer —I think it looks inviting."

Canto III — Scarmoges

"And did you really walk," said I,"On such a wretched night?I always fancied Ghosts could fly —If not exactly in the sky,Yet at a fairish height.""It's very well," said he, "for KingsTo soar above the earth:But Phantoms often find that wings —Like many other pleasant things —Cost more than they are worth."Spectres of course are rich, and soCan buy them from the Elves:But we prefer to keep below —They're stupid company, you know,For any but themselves:"For, though they claim to be exemptFrom pride, they treat a PhantomAs something quite beneath contempt —Just as no Turkey ever dreamtOf noticing a Bantam.""They seem too proud," said I, "to goTo houses such as mine.Pray, how did they contrive to knowSo quickly that 'the place was low,'And that I 'kept bad wine'?""Inspector Kobold came to you — "The little Ghost began.Here I broke in — "Inspector who?Inspecting Ghosts is something new!Explain yourself, my man!""His name is Kobold," said my guest:"One of the Spectre order:You'll very often see him dressedIn a yellow gown, a crimson vest,And a night-cap with a border."He tried the Brocken business first,But caught a sort of chill ;So came to England to be nursed,And here it took the form of thirst ,Which he complains of still."Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,Warms his old bones like nectar:And as the inns, where it is found,Are his especial hunting-ground,We call him the Inn-Spectre. "I bore it — bore it like a man —This agonizing witticism!And nothing could be sweeter thanMy temper, till the Ghost beganSome most provoking criticism."Cooks need not be indulged in waste;Yet still you'd better teach themDishes should have some sort of taste.Pray, why are all the cruets placedWhere nobody can reach them?"That man of yours will never earnHis living as a waiter!Is that queer thing supposed to burn?(It's far too dismal a concernTo call a Moderator)."The duck was tender, but the peasWere very much too old:And just remember, if you please,The next time you have toasted cheese,Don't let them send it cold."You'd find the bread improved, I think,By getting better flour:And have you anything to drinkThat looks a little less like ink,And isn't quite so sour?"Then, peering round with curious eyes,He muttered "Goodness gracious!"And so went on to criticise —"Your room's an inconvenient size:It's neither snug nor spacious."That narrow window, I expect,Serves but to let the dusk in — ""But please," said I, "to recollect'Twas fashioned by an architectWho pinned his faith on Ruskin!""I don't care who he was, Sir, orOn whom he pinned his faith!Constructed by whatever law,So poor a job I never saw,As I'm a living Wraith!"What a re-markable cigar!How much are they a dozen?"I growled "No matter what they are!You're getting as familiarAs if you were my cousin!"Now that's a thing I will not stand ,And so I tell you flat.""Aha," said he, "we're getting grand!"(Taking a bottle in his hand)"I'll soon arrange for that !"And here he took a careful aim,And gaily cried "Here goes!"I tried to dodge it as it came,But somehow caught it, all the same,Exactly on my nose.And I remember nothing moreThat I can clearly fix,Till I was sitting on the floor,Repeating "Two and five are four,But five and two are six."What really passed I never learned,Nor guessed: I only knowThat, when at last my sense returned,The lamp, neglected, dimly burned —The fire was getting low —Through driving mists I seemed to seeA Thing that smirked and smiled:And found that he was giving meA lesson in Biography,As if I were a child.

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 toastThey gave us for our tea.""That story is in print!" I cried."Don't say it's not, becauseIt's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide!"(The Ghost uneasily repliedHe hardly thought it was)."It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yetI almost think it is —'Three little Ghosteses' were set'On posteses,' you know, and ateTheir '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,' orAt least my agent said it did:Some literary swell, who sawIt, thought it seemed adapted forThe 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, sheBrought us all out in different ways —One was a Pixy, two were Fays,Another was a Banshee;"The Fetch and Kelpie went to schoolAnd 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 IHad 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 groanWhen 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 earThat 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 sayI'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 treatsOf 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 enoughTo make it worth the trouble."Long bills soon quenched the little thirstI 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 tireThe patience of a Job!"And then they're so fastidious,The Haunted-House Committee:I've often known them make a fussBecause 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 beAllowed 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 doWith 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 couldRemember having heard:"Perhaps," I said, "you'll be so goodAs tell me what is understoodExactly by that word?""It means the loosening all the doors,"The Ghost replied, and laughed:"It means the drilling holes by scoresIn all the skirting-boards and floors,To make a thorough draught."You'll sometimes find that one or twoAre all you really needTo 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'llBe 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 shouldHave stayed another minute —But still no Ghost, that's any good,Without an introduction wouldHave 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 waitFor half an hour or so.""Who's the Knight-Mayor?" I cried. InsteadOf 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 folkThat 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 soWell 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 MayorI know that every Sprite meantTo vote for me , but did not dare —He was so frantic with despairAnd 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 himA 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 makeA 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 listeningWith 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 lengthTo say "At least I do defyThe veriest sceptic to denyThat 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 eyeOn one small hut against the skyWherein 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 placeThat crowns the upward track.And, entering with unsteady pace,Receives a buffet in the faceThat 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 bringConviction to a ghost,And found it quite a different thingFrom any human arguing,Yet dared not quit my postBut, keeping still the end in viewTo which I hoped to come,I strove to prove the matter trueBy putting everything I knewInto an axiom:Commencing every single phraseWith '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 chapWas never seen before!"You're like a man I used to meet,Who got one day so furiousIn arguing, the simple heatScorched 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 becameA shade or two less hearty —"Why, no," said I. "My proper nameIs Tibbets — " "Tibbets?" "Aye, the same.""Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY!"With that he struck the board a blowThat shivered half the glasses."Why couldn't you have told me soThree 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 beganTo mutter some excuse."Who can have patience with a manThat's got no more discretion thanAn idiotic goose?"To keep me waiting here, insteadOf telling me at onceThat 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 blameOn me in such a fashion!Why didn't you enquire my nameThe very minute that you came?"I answered in a passion."Of course it worries you a bitTo come so far on foot —But how was I to blame for it?""Well, well!" said he. "I must admitThat isn't badly put."And certainly you've given meThe 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, perhapsThey'll send you some inferior Sprite,Who'll keep you in a constant frightAnd 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 awareThat, if you don't behave, you'll soonBe chuckling to another tune —And so you'd best take care!'"That's the right way to cure a SpriteOf such like goings-on —But gracious me! It's getting light!Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!"A nod, and he was gone.

Canto VII — Sad Souvenaunce

What's this?" I pondered. "Have I slept?Or can I have been drinking?"But soon a gentler feeling creptUpon me, and I sat and weptAn hour or so, like winking."No need for Bones to hurry so!"I sobbed. "In fact, I doubtIf it was worth his while to go —And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know,To make such work about?"If Tibbs is anything like me,It's possible ," I said,"He won't be over-pleased to beDropped in upon at half-past three,After he's snug in bed."And if Bones plagues him anyhow —Squeaking and all the rest of it,As he was doing here just now —I prophesy there'll be a row,And Tibbs will have the best of it!"Then, as my tears could never bringThe friendly Phantom back,It seemed to me the proper thingTo mix another glass, and singThe following Coronach.'And art thou gone, beloved Ghost?Best of familiars!Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast,Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,My meerschaum and cigars!The hues of life are dull and gray,The sweets of life insipid,When thou, my charmer, art away —Old Brick, or rather, let me say,Old Parallelepiped!'Instead of singing Verse the Third,I ceased — abruptly, rather:But, after such a splendid wordI felt that it would be absurdTo try it any farther.So with a yawn I went my wayTo seek the welcome downy,And slept, and dreamed till break of dayOf Poltergeist and Fetch and FayAnd Leprechaun and Brownie!For year I've not been visitedBy any kind of Sprite;Yet still they echo in my head,Those parting words, so kindly said,"Old Turnip-top, good-night!"