Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (119 page)

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 Kings

To 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 so

Can 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 exempt

From pride, they treat a Phantom

As something quite beneath contempt -

Just as no Turkey ever dreamt

Of noticing a Bantam.”

“They seem too proud,” said I, “to go

To houses such as mine.

Pray, how did they contrive to know

So 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 dressed

In 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 than

My temper, till the Ghost began

Some most provoking criticism.

“Cooks need not be indulged in waste;

Yet still you’d better teach them

Dishes should have
some sort
of taste.

Pray, why are all the cruets placed

Where nobody can reach them?

“That man of yours will never earn

His living as a waiter!

Is that queer
thing
supposed to burn?

(It’s far too dismal a concern

To call a Moderator).

“The duck was tender, but the peas

Were 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 drink

That 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 architect

Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!”

“I don’t care who he was, Sir, or

On 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 familiar

As 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 more

That 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 know

That, when at last my sense returned,

The lamp, neglected, dimly burned -

The fire was getting low -

Through driving mists I seemed to see

A Thing that smirked and smiled:

And found that he was giving me

A 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 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!