THE "PHANTOM BOARD."
(See Mr. Vernon Lushington's evidence before the Megæra Commission.)
A darkling place, of shadowy space,
Reached by a silent stair;
A skeleton clock, with a dusty face,
That marks time in the air,
To five grey ghosts, in blue and gold lace,
Each in ghost of a board-room chair.
Their red-tape is dust, their penknives are rust,
The ink in each standish is sere;
Their ghost-quills glide betwixt margins wide
Of foolscap, that blanks appear;
And their dead tongues' prose into dead ears goes,
And out at as dead an ear!
But on file and floor, and the tables o'er,
And in pigeon-holes well stored,
Are letters many, and papers more—
An ever-growing hoard!
No phantom of business, albeit before
My Lords of a Phantom Board!
So much work to be done, and, alive, but one
To utter five phantoms' will!
The hours they run, but on Lushington
The papers are pouring still—
And how record for a Phantom Board,
With a merely mortal quill?
Those letters come by messengers dumb—
A hundred thousand a year—
To this room or that, for ghost-clerks to thumb,
And be opened, here and there:
Who registers? None, all; all, some:
Who minutes? Ghost-hands in air.
So, registered or unregistered,
As haste or hap may be;
Minuted or un-minuted,
As ghost, or none, may be free;
The gathering letters have come to a head
That a Phantom Board can see!
Alive but one,—Lone Lushington
Among that ghostly five,
And all this business to be done—
Needs must when phantoms drive!
"Enough to sign," he sighs, "not mine
To read, and still survive."
And while he signs, and signs, and signs,
Its ghost of work upon,
In its red-tape toil the navy to coil,
The Phantom Board sits on:
Essay to seize, your grasp 'twill foil,
Looms, shadowy, and is gone!
Gone but to meet, in order neat,
As ghost-like as before,
In the navy blue, and cock'd hat a-slue,
That ancient Duncan wore,
The Phantom First Lord at the head of the Board,
And, below, the Phantom Four!
Their ghosts of orders they have sped,
Their ghosts of minutes they sign;
But of ship ill-found, or fleet ill-led
The discredit all decline,
To the shrill "Not mine!" of their phantom-head,
Echoing their "Not mine."
John Bull, outside, may groan and gride,
May fume and fret at will;
If he deems live heads his navy guide,
His sea-behests fulfil,
The works and the words of these Phantom Lords
No wonder he taketh ill.
For our ships we know how the sovereigns go.
Hard cash in hard hulls should end:
Why troop-ships are worked till they rotten grow,
We cannot comprehend;
Nor why squalls that blow about Reid & Co.
To the bottom should Captains send.
Some day, I think, with a sneeze and a wink,
Shocked wide-awake again,
John Bull will make free with the Board-room key,
Grope his way to the door, and then,
Round the Board-screen peep at the ghosts that keep
The seats of living men!
We wouldn't hold posts among those ghosts—
Nor of Sea, nor of Civil Lord—
That to build John's ships, and to guard John's coasts,
Have borrowed his shield and sword:
If Ghosts can be kicked, kicked out of their posts
Will be the Phantom Board!
