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!"