Mr. Sludge, The Medium

Now, dont, sir! Dont expose me!     Just this once! This was the first and only time, Ill swear,     Look at me, see, I kneel, the only time,     I swear, I ever cheated, yes, by the soul     Of Her who hears (your sainted mother, sir!)     All, except this last accident, was truth     This little kind of slip! and even this,     It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne,     (I took it for Catawba, you re so kind)     Which put the folly in my head!     Get up?     You still inflict on me that terrible face?     You show no mercy? Not for Her dear sake,     The sainted spirits, whose soft breath even now     Blows on my cheek (dont you feel something, sir?)     You ll tell?                                             Go tell, then! Who the devil cares     What such a rowdy chooses to . . .     Aie aie aie!     Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir!     Ch ch!                                             Well, sir, I hope you ve done it now!     Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday,     When your departed mother spoke those words     Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much,     You gave me (very kind it was of you)     These shirt-studs (better take them back again,     Please, sir) yes, little did I think so soon     A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much     Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends     Into an angry gentleman!     Though, t was wrong.     I dont contest the point: your angers just:     Whatever put such folly in my head,     I know t was wicked of me. There s a thick     Dusk undeveloped spirit (I ve observed)     Owes me a grudge a negros, I should say,     Or else an Irish emigrants; yourself     Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir,     When we had summoned Franklin to clear up     A point about those shares i the telegraph:     Ay, and he swore . . . or might it be Tom Paine? . . .     Thumping the table close by where I crouched,     He d do me soon a mischief: that s come true!     Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would!     Then, this one time . . . dont take your hand away,     Through yours I surely kiss your mothers hand . . .     Youll promise to forgive me? or, at least,     Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!     What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade     Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe     A rap or tip! What bit of paper s here?     Suppose we take a pencil, let her write,     Make the least sign, she urges on her child     Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! T was your foot,     And not a natural creak, sir?     Answer, then!     Once, twice, thrice . . . see, Im waiting to say thrice!     All to no use? No sort of hope for me?     It s all to post to Greeleys newspaper?     What? If I told you all about the tricks?     Upon my soul? the whole truth, and nought else,     And how there s been some falsehood for your part,     Will you engage to pay my passage out,     And hold your tongue until I m safe on board?     Englands the place, not Boston no offence!     I see what makes you hesitate: dont fear!     I mean to change my trade and cheat no more,     Yes, this time really it s upon my soul!     Be my salvation! under Heaven, of course.     I ll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do.     A trifle, though, to start with! We ll refer     The question to this table?     How you re changed!     Then split the difference; thirty more, we ll say.     Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I ll swear     T was all through those: you wanted yours again,     So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back!     Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn,     Your fault! T is youll have forced me! Whos obliged     To give up life yet try on self-defence?     At all events, I ll run the risk. Eh?     Done!     May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now!     Please, sir, a parting egg-nogg and cigar!     I ve been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs,     And sympathetic sideboards; what an end     To all the instructive evenings! (It s alight.)     Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said.     Here goes, but keep your temper, or I ll scream!     Fol-lol-the-rido-lddle-iddle-ol!     You see, sir, it s your own fault more than mine;     It s all your fault, you curious gentlefolk!     You re prigs, excuse me, like to look so spry,     So clever, while you cling by half a claw     To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost,     Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch     Because you chose it, so it must be safe.     Oh, otherwise you re sharp enough! You spy     Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing,     Wanting real foothold, who cant keep upright     On the other perch, your neighbour chose, not you:     There s no outwitting you respecting him!     For instance, men love money that, you know     And what men do to gain it: well, suppose     A poor lad, say a helps son in your house,     Listening at keyholes, hears the company     Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth,     How hard they are to get, how good to hold,     How much they buy, if, suddenly, in pops he     Ive got a V-note! what do you say to him?     Whats your first word which follows your last kick?     Where did you steal it, rascal? That s because     He finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch,     Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir,     Elected your parade-ground: let him try     Lies to the end of the list,    He picked it up,     His cousin died and left it him by will,     The President flung it to him, riding by,     An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair,     He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched,     He dug up clay, and out of clay made gold     How would you treat such possibilities?     Would not you, prompt, investigate the case     With cow-hide? Lies, lies, lies, youd shout: and why?     Which of the stories might not prove mere truth?     This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin!     Lets see, now, give him me to speak for him!     How many of your rare philosophers,     In plaguy books Ive had to dip into,     Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made     And made it? Oh, with such philosophers     Youre on your best behaviour! While the lad     With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods,     Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize:     In his case, you hear, judge and execute,     All in a breath: so would most men of sense.     But let the same lad hear you talk as grand     At the same keyhole, you and company,     Of signs and wonders, the invisible world;     How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief     More than our vulgarest credulity;     How good men have desired to see a ghost,     What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did,     Mother Goose thought, and fiddle-diddle-dee:     If he break in with, Sir, I saw a ghost!     Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim;     Its a conceit of yours that ghosts may be:     Theres no talk now of cow-hide. Tell it out!     Dont fear us! Take your time and recollect!     Sit down first: try a glass of wine, my boy!     And, David, (is not that your Christian name?)     Of all things, should this happen twice it may     Be sure, while fresh in mind, you let us know!     Does the boy blunder, blurt out this, blab that,     Break down in the other, as beginners will?     All s candour, all s considerateness No haste!     Pause and collect yourself! We understand!     Thats the bad memory, or the natural shock,     Or the unexplained phenomena!     Egad,     The boy takes heart of grace; finds, never fear,     The readiest way to ope your own heart wide,     Show what I call your peacock-perch, pet post     To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon!     Just as you thought, much as you might expect!     There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, . .     And so on. Shall not David take the hint,     Grow bolder, stroke you down at quickened rate?     If he ruffle a feather, it s Gently, patiently!     Manifestations are so weak at first!     Doubting, moreover, kills them, cuts all short,     Cures with a vengeance!     There, sir, thats your style!     You and your boy such pains bestowed on him,     Or any headpiece of the average worth,     To teach, say, Greek, would perfect him apace,     Make him a Person (Porson? thank you, sir!)     Much more, proficient in the art of lies.     You never leave the lesson! Fire alight,     Catch you permitting it to die! You ve friends;     There s no withholding knowledge, least from those     Apt to look elsewhere for their souls supply:     Why should not you parade your lawful prize?     Who finds a picture, digs a medal up,     Hits on a first edition, he henceforth     Gives it his name, grows notable: how much more,     Who ferrets out a medium? David s yours,     You highly-favoured man? Then, pity souls     Less privileged! Allow us share your luck!     So, David holds the circle, rules the roast,     Narrates the vision, peeps in the glass ball     Sets-to the spirit-writing, hears the raps,     As the case may be.     Now mark! To be precise     Though I say, lies all these, at this first stage,     T is just for science sake: I call such grubs     By the name of what theyll turn to, dragonflies.     Strictly, it s what good people style untruth;     But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing:     It s fancying, fable-making, nonsense-work     What never meant to be so very bad     The knack of story-telling, brightening up     Each dull old bit of fact that drops its shine.     One does see somewhat when one shuts ones eyes,     If only spots and streaks; tables do tip     In the oddest way of themselves: and pens, good Lord,     Who knows if you drive them or they drive you?     T is but a foot in the water and out again;     Not that duck-under which decides your dive.     Note this, for it s important: listen why.     I ll prove, you push on David till he dives     And ends the shivering. Here s your circle, now:     Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host,     Turn up their eyes, and cry, as you expect,     Lord, whod have thought it! But theres always one     Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits     Of your veracity no kind of doubt,     But do you feel so certain of that boys?     Really, I wonder! I confess myself     More chary of my faith! That s galling, sir!     What, he the investigator, he the sage,     When all s done? Then, you just have shut your eyes,     Opened your mouth, and gulped down David whole,     You! Terrible were such catastrophe!     So, evidence is redoubled, doubled again,     And doubled besides; once more, He heard, we heard,     You and they heard, your mother and your wife,     Your children and the stranger in your gates:     Did they or did they not? So much for him,     The black sheep, guest without the wedding-garb,     The doubting Thomas! Now s your time to crow:     Hes kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats?     Leave you alone to take precautions!     Straight     The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed,     Sips silent some such beverage as this,     Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes     And gulping David in good fellowship,     Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange,     With no egg-nogg to lubricate the food,     Some just as tough a morsel. Over the way,     Holds Captain Sparks his court: is it better there?     Have not you hunting-stories, scalping-scenes,     And Mexican War exploits to swallow plump     If you d be free o the stove-side, rocking-chair,     And trio of affable daughters?     Doubt succumbs!     Victory! All your circle s yours again!     Out of the clubbing of submissive wits,     Davids performance rounds, each chink gets patched,     Every protrusion of a point s filed fine,     All s fit to set a-rolling round the world,     And then return to David finally,     Lies seven-feet thick about his first half-inch.     Here s a choice birth o the supernatural,     Poor David s pledged to! You ve employed no tool     That laws exclaim at, save the devils own,     Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you     To the top o your bent, all out of one half-lie!     You hold, if there s one half or a hundredth part     Of a lie, that s his fault, his be the penalty!     I dare say! You d prove firmer in his place?     You d find the courage, that first flurry over,     That mild bit of romancing-work at end,     To interpose with It gets serious, this;     Must stop here. Sir, I saw no ghost at all.     Inform your friends I made . . . well, fools of them,     And found you ready-made. I ve lived in clover     These three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!     I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know,     Twelve months hence, with how few embellishments     You ve told almighty Boston of this passage     Of arms between us, your first taste o the foil     From Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy!     I lied, sir, there! I got up from my gorge     On offal in the gutter, and preferred     Your canvas-backs: I took their carvers size,     Measured his modicum of intelligence,     Tickled him on the cockles of his heart     With a raven feather, and next week found myself     Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart,     Set on a stool buttressed by ladies knees,     Every soft smiler calling me her pet,     Encouraging my story to uncoil     And creep out from its hole, inch after inch,     How last night, I no sooner snug in bed,     Tucked up, just as they left me, than came raps!     While a light whisked . . . Shaped somewhat like a star?     Well, like some sort of stars, maam. So we thought!     And any voice? Not yet? Try hard, next time,     If you cant hear a voice; we, think you may:     At least, the Pennsylvanian mediums did.     Oh, next time comes the voice! Just as we hoped!     Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse     O the natural acknowledgment?     Of course!     So, off we push, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat,     On we sweep with a cataract ahead,     We re midway to the Horseshoe: stop, who can,     The dance of bubbles gay about our prow!     Experiences become worth waiting for,     Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind,     And compliment the medium properly,     Concern themselves about his Sunday coat,     See rings on his hand with pleasure. Ask yourself     How you d receive a course of treats like these!     Why, take the quietest hack and stall him up,     Cram him with corn a month, then out with him     Among his mates on a bright April morn,     With the turf to tread; see if you find or no     A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts!     Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rank     As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. T is soon,     Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry,     Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!     Im spared all further trouble; all s arranged;     Your circle does my business; I may rave     Like an epileptic dervish in the books,     Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds;     No matter: lovers, friends and countrymen     Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right     By the rule o reverse. If Francis Verulam     Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside     With a y and a k, says he drew breath in York,     Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned,     (As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say,     Before I found the useful book that knows)     Why, what harm s done? The circle smiles apace,     It was not Bacon. after all. you see!     We understand; the trick s but natural:     Such spirits individuality     Is hard to put in evidence: they incline     To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts.     You see, their world s much like a jail broke loose,     While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred,     With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend,     Serves as this window, whether thin or thick,     Or stained or stainless; hes the medium-pane     Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep:     They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,     Tread on their neighbours kibes, play tricks enough!     Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside?     Up in his place jumps Barnum I m your man,     I ll answer you for Bacon! Try once more!     Or else it s What s a medium? He s a means,     Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means     Spirits can speak by; he may misconceive,     Stutter and stammer, he s their Sludge and drudge,     Take him or leave him; they must hold their peace,     Or else, put up with having knowledge strained     To half-expression through his ignorance.     Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed     New music hes brimful of; why, he turns     The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,     And what he poured in at the mouth o the mill     As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now!)     Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, nought else,     The Shakers Hymn in G, with a natural F,     Or the Stars and Stripes set to consecutive fourths.     Sir, wheres the scrape you did not help me through,     You that are wise? And for the fools, the folk     Who came to see, the guests, (observe that word!)     Pray do you find guests criticize your wine,     Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose?     Then, why your medium? Whats the difference?     Prove your madeira red-ink and gamboge,     Your Sludge, a cheat then, somebody s a goose     For vaunting both as genuine. Guests! Dont fear!     They ll make a wry face, nor too much of that,     And leave you in your glory.     No, sometimes     They doubt and say as much! Ay, doubt they do!     And whats the consequence? Of course they doubt     (You triumph) that explains the hitch at once!     Doubt posed our medium, puddled his pure mind;     He gave them back their rubbish: pitch chaff in,     Could flour come out o the honest mill? So, prompt     Applaud the faithful: cases flock in point,     How, when a mocker willed a medium once     Should name a spirit James whose name was George,     James cried the medium, t was the test of truth!     In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more.     Does this convince? The better: does it fail?     Time for the double-shotted broadside, then     The grand means, last resource. Look black and big!     You style us idiots, therefore why stop short?     Accomplices in rascality; this we hear     In our own house, from our invited guest     Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy     Exposed by our good faith! Have you been heard?     Now, then, hear us; one man s not quite worth twelve.     You see a cheat? Here s some twelve see an ass!     Excuse me if I calculate: good day!     Out slinks the sceptic, all the laughs explode.     Sludge waves his hat in triumph!     Or he dont.     Theres something in real truth (explain who can!)     One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse     Who mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and wont munch     Because he spies a corn-bag: hang that truth,     It spoils all dainties proffered in its place!     I ve felt at times when, cockered, cosseted     And coddled by the aforesaid company,     Bidden enjoy their bullying, never fear,     But oer their shoulders spit at the flying man,     I ve felt a child; only, a fractious child     That, dandled soft by nurse, aunt, grandmother,     Who keep him from the kennel, sun and wind,     Good fun and wholesome mud, enjoined be sweet,     And comely and superior, eyes askance     The ragged sons o the gutter at their game,     Fain would be down with them i the thick o the filth,     Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain,     And calling granny the grey old cat she is.     I ve felt a spite, I say, at you, at them,     Huggings and humbug-gnashed my teeth to mark     A decent dog pass! It s too bad, I say,     Ruining a soul so!     But what s so, what s fixed,     Where may one stop? Nowhere! The cheatings nursed     Out of the lying, softly and surely spun     To just your length, sir! Id stop soon enough:     But youre for progress. All old, nothing new?     Only the usual talking through the mouth,     Or writing by the hand? I own, I thought     This would develop, grow demonstrable,     Make doubt absurb, give figures we might see,     Flowers we might touch. Theres no one doubts you, Sludge!     You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights,     The speeches come in your head, beyond dispute.     Still, for the sceptics sake, to stop all mouths,     We want some outward manifestation! well,     The Pennsylvanians gained such; why not Sludge?     He may improve with time!     Ay, that he may!     He sees his lot: theres no avoiding fate.     T is a trifle at first. Eh, David? Did you hear?     You jogged the table, your foot caused the squeak,     This time youre . . . joking, are you not, my boy?     N-n-no! and I m done for, bought and sold hence forth.     The old good easy jog-trot way, the . . . eh?     The . . . not so very false, as falsehood goes,     The spinning out and drawing fine, you know,     Really mere novel-writing of a sort,     Acting, or improvising, make-believe,     Surely not downright cheatery, any how,     T is done with and my lot cast; Cheats my name:     The fatal dash of brandy in your tea     Has settled what youll have the souchongs smack:     The caddy gives way to the drain-bottle.     Then, its so cruel easy! Oh, those tricks     That cant be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand,     Clearly no common conjurors! no indeed!     A conjuror? Choose me any craft i the world     A man puts hand to; and with six months pains     Ill play you twenty tricks miraculous     To people untaught the trade: have you seen glass blown,     Pipes pierced? Why, just this biscuit that I chip,     Did you ever watch a baker toss one flat     To the oven? Try and do it! Take my word,     Practise but half as much, while limbs are lithe,     To turn, shove, tilt a table, crack your joints,     Manage your feet, dispose your hands aright,     Work wires that twitch the curtains, play the glove     At end o your slipper, then put out the lights     And . . . there, there, all you want you ll get, I hope!     I found it slip, easy as an old shoe.     Now, lights on table again! I ve done my part,     You take my place while I give thanks and rest.     Well, Judge Humgruffin, what s your verdict, sir?     You, hardest head in the United States,     Did you detect a cheat here? Wait! Let s see!     Just an experiment first, for candours sake!     I ll try and cheat you, Judge? The table tilts:     Is it I that move it? Write! Ill press your hand:     Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge!     Sludge still triumphant! That a rap, indeed?     That, the real writing? Very like a whale!     Then, if, sir, you a most distinguished man,     And, were the Judge not here, Id say, . . . no matter!     Well, sir, if you fail, you cant take us in,     There s little fear that Sludge will!     Wont he, maam     But what if our distinguished host, like Sludge,     Bade God bear witness that he played no trick,     While you believed that what produced the raps     Was just a certain child who died, you know,     And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt?     Eh? Thats a capital point, maam; Sludge begins     At your entreaty with your dearest dead,     The little voice set lisping once again,     The tiny hand made feel for yours once more,     The poor lost image brought back, plain as dreams,     Which image, if a word had chanced recall,     The customary cloud would cross your eyes,     Your heart return the old tick, pay its pang!     A right mood for investigation, this!     Ones at ones ease with Saul and Jonathan,     Pompey and Caesar: but ones own lost child . . .     I wonder, when you heard the first clod drop     From the spadeful at the grave-side, felt you free     To investigate who twitched your funeral scarf     Or brushed your flounces? Then, it came of course     You should be stunned and stupid; then, (how else?)     Your breath stopped with your blood, your brain struck work.     But now, such causes fail of such effects,     All s changed, the little voice begins afresh,     Yet, you, calm, consequent, can test and try     And touch the truth. Tests? Didnt the creature tell     Its nurses name, and say it lived six years,     And rode a rocking-horse? Enough of tests!     Sludge never could learn that!     He could not, eh?     You compliment him. Could not? Speak for yourself!     I d like to know the man I ever saw     Once, never mind where, how, why, when, once saw,     Of whom I do not keep some matter in mind     He d swear I could not know, sagacious soul!     What? Do you live in this worlds blow of blacks,     Palaver, gossipry, a single hour     Nor find one smut has settled on your nose,     Of a smuts worth, no more, no less? one fact     Out of the drift of facts, whereby you learn     What someone was, somewhere, somewhen, somewhy?     You dont tell folk See what has stuck to me!     Judge Humgruffin, our most distinguished man,     Your uncle was a tailor, and your wife     Thought to have married Miggs, missed him, hit you!     Do you, sir, though you see him twice a-week?     No, you reply, what use retailing it?     Why should I? But, you see, one day you should,     Because one day there s much use, when this fact     Brings you the Judge upon both gouty knees     Before the supernatural; proves that Sludge Knows,     as you say, a thing he could not know:     Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face     The way the wind drives?     Could not! Look you now,     I ll tell you a story! There s a whiskered chap,     A foreigner, that teaches music here     And gets his bread, knowing no better way:     He says, the fellow who informed of him     And made him fly his country and fall West     Was a hunchback cobbler, sat, stitched soles and sang,     In some outlandish place, the city Rome,     In a cellar by their Broadway, all day long;     Never asked questions, stopped to listen or look,     Nor lifted nose from lapstone; let the world     Roll round his three-legged stool, and news run in     The ears he hardly seemed to keep pricked up.     Well, that man went on Sundays, touched his pay,     And took his praise from government, you see;     For something like two dollars every week,     Hed engage tell you some one little thing     Of some one man, which led to many more,     (Because one truth leads right to the worlds end)     And make you that mans master when he dined     And on what dish, where walked to keep his health     And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus     His sense out, like an ant-eaters long tongue,     Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible,     And when t was crusted oer with creatures slick,     Their juice enriched his palate. Could not Sludge!     I ll go yet a step further, and maintain,     Once the imposture plunged its proper depth     I the rotton of your natures, all of you,     (If one s not mad nor drunk, and hardly then)     It s impossible to cheat that s, be found out!     Go tell your brotherhood this first slip of mine,     All to-days tale, how you detected Sludge,     Behaved unpleasantly, till he was fain confess,     And so has come to grief! Youll find, I think,     Why Sludge still snaps his fingers in your face.     There now, youve told them! Whats their prompt reply?     Sir, did that youth confess he had cheated me,     Id disbelieve him. He may cheat at times;     Thats in the medium-nature, thus theyre made,     Vain and vindictive, cowards, prone to scratch     And so all cats are; still, a cat s the beast     You coax the strange electric sparks from out,     By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog,     Nor lion, nor lamb: t is the cats nature, sir!     Why not the dogs? Ask God, who made them beasts!     D ye think the sound, the nicely-balanced man     (Like me aside) like you yourself, (aloud)     He s stuff to make a medium? Bless your soul,     T is these hysteric, hybrid half-and-halfs,     Equivocal, worthless vermin yield the fire!     We take such as we find them, ware their tricks,     Wanting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you     How, I cant say, not being there to watch:     He was tried, was tempted by your easiness,     He did not take in me!     Thank you for Sludge!     I m to be grateful to such patrons, eh,     When what you hears my best word? T is a challenge     Snap at all strangers, half-tamed prairie-dog,     So you cower duly at your keepers beck!     Cat, show what claws were made for, muffling them     Only to me! Cheat others if you can,     Me, if you dare! And, my wise sir, I dared     Did cheat you first, made you cheat others next,     And had the help o your vaunted manliness     To bully the incredulous. You used me?     Have not I used you, taken full revenge,     Persuaded folk they knew not their own name,     And straight theyd own the error! Who was the fool     When, to an awe-struck wide-eyed open-mouthed     Circle of sages, Sludge would introduce     Milton composing baby-rhymes, and Locke     Reasoning in gibberish, Homer writing Greek     In noughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalms     To crotchet and quaver? I ve made a spirit squeak     In sham voice for a minute, then outbroke     Bold in my own, defying the imbeciles     Have copied some ghosts pothooks, half a page,     Then ended with my own scrawl undisguised.     All right! The ghost was merely using Sludge,     Suiting itself from his imperfect stock!     Dont talk of gratitude to me! For what?     For being treated as a showmans ape,     Encouraged to be wicked and make sport,     Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any mood     So long as the ape be in it and no man     Because a nut pays every mood alike.     Curse your superior, superintending sort,     Who, since you hate smoke, send up boys that climb     To cure your chimney, bid a medium lie     To sweep you truth down! Curse your women too,     Your insolent wives and daughters, that fire up     Or faint away if a male hand squeeze theirs,     Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with Sludge     As only a medium, only the kind of thing     They must humour, fondle . . . oh, to misconceive     Were too preposterous! But Ive paid them out!     They ve had their wish called for the naked truth,     And in she tripped, sat down and bade them stare:     They had to blush a little and forgive!     The fact is, children talk so; in next world     All our conventions are reversed, perhaps     Made light of: something like old prints, my dear!     The Judge has one, he brought from Italy,     A metropolis in the background, oer a bridge,     A team of trotting roadsters, cheerful groups     Of wayside travellers, peasants at their work,     And, full in front, quite unconcerned, why not?     Three nymphs conversing with a cavalier,     And never a rag among them: fine, folk cry     And heavenly manners seem not much unlike!     Let Sludge go on; we ll fancy it s in print!     If such as came for wool, sir, went home shorn,     Where is the wrong I did them? T was their choice;     They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed up     And lost, as some ones sure to do in games;     They fancied I was made to lose, smoked glass     Useful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes:     And had I proved a red-hot iron plate     They thought to pierce, and, for their pains, grew blind,     Whose were the fault but theirs? While, as things go,     Their loss amounts to gain, the more s the shame!     Theyve had their peep into the spirit-world,     And all this world may know it! Theyve fed fat     Their self-conceit which else had starved: what chance     Save this, of cackling oer a golden egg     And compassing distinction from the flock,     Friends of a feather? Well, they paid for it,     And not prodigiously; the price o the play,     Not counting certain pleasant interludes,     Was scarce a vulgar plays worth. When you buy     The actors talent, do you dare propose     For his soul beside? Whereas my soul you buy!     Sludge acts Macbeth, obliged to be Macbeth,     Or youll not hear his first word! Just go through     That slight formality, swear himself s the Thane,     And thenceforth he may strut and fret his hour,     Spout, spawl, or spin his target, no one cares!     Why hadnt I leave to play tricks, Sludge as Sludge?     Enough of it all! Ive wiped out scores with you     Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked     Like tone-fool with your ochre and carmine,     Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewed     To metamorphose somebody, yes, Ive earned     My wages, swallowed down my bread of shame,     And shake the crumbs off where but in your face?     As for religion why, I served it, sir!     Ill stick to that! With my phenomena     I laid the atheist sprawling on his back,     Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg!     In fact, its just the proper way to baulk     These troublesome fellows-liars, one and all,     Are not these sceptics? Well, to baffle them,     No use in being squeamish: lie yourself!     Erect your buttress just as wide o the line,     Your side, as they build up the wall on theirs;     Where both meet, midway in a point, is truth     High overhead: so, take your room, pile bricks,     Lie! Oh, theres titillation in all shame!     What snow may lose in white, snow gains in rose!     Miss Stokes turns Rahab, nor a bad exchange!     Glory be on her, for the good she wrought,     Breeding belief anew neath ribs of death,     Browbeating now the unabashed before,     Ridding us of their whole lifes gathered straws     By a live coal from the altar! Why, of old,     Great men spent years and years in writing books     To prove we ve souls, and hardly proved it then:     Miss Stokes with her live coal, for you and me!     Surely, to this good issue, all was fair     Not only fondling Sludge, but, even suppose     He let escape some spice of knavery, well,     In wisely being blind to it! Dont you praise     Nelson for setting spy-glass to blind eye     Any saying . . . what was it that he could not see     The signal he was bothered with? Ay, indeed!     I ll go beyond: there s a real love of a lie,     Liars find ready-made for lies they make,     As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum.     At best, t is never pure and full belief;     Those furthest in the quagmire, dont suppose     They strayed there with no warning, got no chance     Of a filth-speck in their face, which they clenched teeth,     Bent brow against! Be sure they had their doubts,     And fears, and fairest challenges to try     The floor o the seeming solid sand! But no!     Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised,     All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved,     And Sludge called pet: t was easier marching on     To the promised land join those who, Thursday next,     Meant to meet Shakespeare; better follow Sludge     Prudent, oh sure! on the alert, how else?     But making for the mid-bog, all the same!     To hear your outcries, one would think I caught     Miss Stokes by the scruff o the neck, and pitched her flat,     Foolish-face-foremost! Hear these simpletons,     That s all I beg, before my work s begun,     Before I ve touched them with my finger-tip!     Thus they await me (do but listen, now!     It s reasoning, this is, I cant imitate     The baby voice, though) In so many tales     Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big,     Yet, some: a single man s deceived, perhaps     Hardly, a thousand: to suppose one cheat     Can gull all these, were more miraculous far     Than aught we should confess a miracle     And so on. Then the Judge sums up (it s rare)     Bids you respect the authorities that leap     To the judgment-seat at once, why dont you note     The limpid nature, the unblemished life,     The spotless honour, indisputable sense     Of the first upstart with his story? What     Outrage a boy on whom you neer till now     Set eyes, because he finds raps trouble him?     Fools, these are: ay, and how of their opposites     Who never did, at bottom of their hearts,     Believe for a moment? Men emasculate,     Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,     With superstition safely, cold of blood,     Who saw what made for them i the mystery,     Took their occasion, and supported Sludge     As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd!     But promisers of fair play, encouragers     O the claimant; who in candour needs must hoist     Sludge up on Mars Hill, get speech out of Sludge     To carry off, criticize, and cant about!     Didnt Athens treat Saint Paul so? at any rate,     It s a new thing philosophy fumbles at.     Then there s the other picker-out of pearl     From dung-heaps, ay, your literary man,     Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge     Daintily and discreetly, shakes a dust     O the doctrine, flavours thence, he well knows how,     The narrative or the novel, half-believes,     All for the books sake, and the publics stare,     And the cash that s Gods sole solid in this world!     Look at him! Try to be too bold, too gross     For the master! Not you! He s the man for muck;     Shovel it forth, full-splash, he ll smooth your brown     Into artistic richness, never fear!     Find him the crude stuff; when you recognize     Your lie again, you ll doff your hat to it,     Dressed out for company! For company,     I say, since there s the relish of success:     Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth,     Save the soft silent smirking gentleman     Who ushered in the stranger: you must sigh     How melancholy, he, the only one     Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth     Himself gave birth to! There s the triumphs smack!     That man would choose to see the whole world roll     I the slime o the slough, so he might touch the tip     Of his brush with what I call the best of browns     Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the power     Of the outworn umber and bistre!     Yet I think     There s a more hateful form of foolery     The social sages, Solomon of saloons     And philosophic diner-out, the fribble     Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block     To try the edge of his faculty upon,     Prove how much common sense he ll hack and hew     I the critical minute twixt the soup and fish!     These were my patrons: these, and the like of them     Who, rising in my soul now, sicken it,     These I have injured! Gratitude to these?     The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute     To the greenhorn and the bully friends of hers,     From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club,     To the snuff-box-decorator, honest man,     Who just was at his wits end where to find     So genial a Pasiphae! All and each     Pay, compliment, protect from the police:     And how she hates them for their pains, like me!     So much for my remorse at thanklessness     Toward a deserving public!     But, for God?     Ay, that s a question! Well, sir, since you press     (How you do tease the whole thing out of me!     I dont mean you, you know, when I say them:     Hate you, indeed! But that Miss Stokes, that Judge!     Enough, enough with sugar: thank you, sir!)     Now for it, then! Will you believe me, though?     Youve heard what I confess; I dont unsay     A single word: I cheated when I could,     Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work,     Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink,     Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match,     And all the rest; believe that: believe this,     By the same token, though it seem to set     The crooked straight again, unsay the said,     Stick up what I ve knocked down; I cant help that     It s truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day     This trade of mine I dont know, cant be sure     But there was something in it, tricks and all!     Really, I want to light up my own mind.     They were tricks, true, but what I mean to add     Is also true. First, dont it strike you, sir?     Go back to the beginning, the first fact     We re taught is, there s a world beside this world,     With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry;     That much within that world once sojourned here,     That all upon this world will visit there,     And therefore that we, bodily here below,     Must have exactly such an interest     In learning what may be the ways o the world     Above us, as the disembodied folk     Have (by all analogic likelihood)     In watching how things go in the old home     With us, their sons, successors, and what not.     Oh yes, with added powers probably,     Fit for the novel state, old loves grown pure,     Old interests understood aright, they watch!     Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help,     Proportionate to advancement: they re ahead,     Thats all do what we do, but noblier done     Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf,     (To use a figure).     Concede that, and I ask     Next what may be the mode of intercourse     Between us men here, and those once-men there?     First comes the Bibles speech; then, history     With the supernatural element, you know     All that we sucked in with our mothers milk,     Grew up with, got inside of us at last,     Till its found bone of bone and flesh of flesh.     See now, we start with the miraculous,     And know it used to be, at all events:     Whats the first step we take, and cant but take,     In arguing from the known to the obscure?     Why this: What was before, may be to-day.     Since Samuels ghost appeared to Saul, of course     My brothers spirit may appear to me.     Go tell your teacher that! Whats his reply?     What brings a shade of doubt for the first time     Oer his brow late so luminous with faith?     Such things have been, says he, and theres no doubt     Such things may be: but I advise mistrust     Of eyes, ears, stomach, and, more than all, your brain,     Unless it be of your great-grandmother,     Whenever they propose a ghost to you!     The end is, theres a composition struck;     T is settled, weve some way of intercourse     Just as in Sauls time; only, different:     How, when and where, precisely, find it out!     I want to know, then, whats so natural     As that a person born into this world     And seized on by such teaching, should begin     With firm expectancy and a frank look-out     For his own allotment, his especial share     I the secret, his particular ghost, in fine?     I mean, a person born to look that way,     Since natures differ: take the painter-sort,     One man lives fifty years in ignorance     Whether grass be green or red, No kind of eye     For colour, say you; while another picks     And puts away even pebbles, when a child,     Because of bluish spots and pinky veins     Give him forthwith a paint-box! Just the same     Was I born . . . medium, you wont let me say,     Well, seer of the supernatural     Everywhen, everyhow and everywhere,     Will that do?     I and all such boys of course     Started with the same stock of Bible-truth;     Only, what in the rest you style their sense,     Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative,     This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law     And ours another: New world, new laws, cried they:     None but old laws, seen everywhere at work,     Cried I, and by their help explained my life     The Jews way, still a working way to me.     Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights,     Or Santa Claus slid down on New Years Eve     And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed,     Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate     O the sum that came to grief the day before.     This could not last long: soon enough I found     Who had worked wonders thus, and to what end:     But did I find all easy, like my mates?     Henceforth no supernatural any more?     Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls?     A cue, you answer: Yes, a cue, said I;     But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue?     What unseen agency, outside the world,     Prompted its puppets to do this and that,     Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind,     These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?     Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since.     Just so I reason, in sober earnest still,     About the greater godsends, what you call     The serious gains and losses of my life.     What do I know or care about your world     Which either is or seems to be? This snap     O my fingers, sir! My care is for myself;     Myself am whole and sole reality     Inside a raree-show and a market-mob     Gathered about it: that s the use of things.     T is easy saying they serve vast purposes,     Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false,     Each thing may have two uses. What s a star?     A world, or a worlds sun: doesnt it serve     As taper also, time-piece, weather-glass,     And almanac? Are stars not set for signs     When we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees?     The Bible says so.     Well, I add one use     To all the acknowledged uses, and declare     If I spy Charless Wain at twelve to-night,     It warns me, Go, nor lose another day,     And have your hair cut, Sludge! You laugh: and why?     Were such a sign too hard for God to give?     No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace:     Thank you, sir! So you think, so does not Sludge!     When you and good men gape at Providence,     Go into history and bid us mark     Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns     Kept on kings heads by miracle enough,     But private mercies oh, youve told me, sir,     Of such interpositions! How yourself     Once, missing on a memorable day     Your handkerchief just setting out, you know,     You must return to fetch it, lost the train,     And saved your precious self from what befell     The thirty-three whom Providence forgot.     You tell, and ask me what I think of this?     Well, sir, I think then, since you needs must know,     What matter had you and Boston city to boot     Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? Much     To you, no doubt: for me undoubtedly     The cutting of my hair concerns me more,     Because, however sad the truth may seem,     Sludge is of all-importance to himself.     You set apart that day in every year     For special thanksgiving, were a heathen else:     Well, I cannot boast the like escape,     Suppose I said I dont thank Providence     For my part, owing it no gratitude?     Nay, but you owe as much youd tutor me,     You, every man alive, for blessings gained     In every hour o the day, could you but know!     I saw my crowning mercy: all have such,     Could they but see! Well, sir, why dont they see?     Because they wont look, or perhaps, they cant.     Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and do     Look, microscopically as is right,     Into each hour with its infinitude     Of influences at work to profit Sludge?     For thats the case: Ive sharpened up my sight     To spy a providence in the fires going out,     The kettles boiling, the dimes sticking fast     Despite the hole i the pocket. Call such facts     Fancies, too petty a work for Providence,     And those same thanks which you exact from me     Prove too prodigious payment: thanks for what,     If nothing guards and guides us little men?     No, no, sir! You must put away your pride,     Resolve to let Sludge into partnership!     I live by signs and omens: looked at the roof     Where the pigeons settle If the further bird,     The white, takes wing first, Ill confess when thrashed;     Not, if the blue does so I said to myself     Last week, lest you should take me by surprise:     Off flapped the white, and I m confessing, sir!     Perhaps t is Providences whim and way     With only me, i the world: how can you tell?     Because unlikely! Was it likelier, now,     That this our one out of all worlds beside,     The what-dyou-call em millions, should be just     Precisely chosen to make Adam for,     And the rest o the tale? Yet the tale s true, you know:     Such undeserving clod was graced so once;     Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge?     Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags?     All you can bring against my privilege     Is, that another way was taken with you,     Which I dont question. It s pure grace, my luck:     I m broken to the way of nods and winks,     And need no formal summoning. You ve a help;     Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands,     Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all s one,     He understands you want him, here he comes.     Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, wait     The tongue o the bell, nor stir before you catch     Reasons clear tingle, natures clapper brisk,     Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer     Your mothers face turned heavenward: short of these     There s no authentic intimation, eh?     Well, when you hear, you ll answer them, start up     And stride into the presence, top of toe,     And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprang     At noise o the knuckle on the partition-wall!     I think myself the more religious man.     Religion s all or nothing; it s no mere smile     O contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir     No quality o the finelier-tempered clay     Like its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuff     O the very stuff, life of life, and self of self.     I tell you, men wont notice; when they do,     They ll understand. I notice nothing else:     I m eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape,     Nothing eludes me, everything s a hint,     Handle and help. It s all absurd, and yet     Theres something in it all, I know: how much?     No answer! What does that prove? Mans still man.     Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work     When alls done; but, if somewhat s done, like this,     Or not done, is the case the same? Suppose     I blunder in my guess at the true sense     O the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten,     What if the tenth guess happen to be right?     If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartz     Yield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all,     Pass oer the failure, pounce on the success.     To give you a notion, now (let who wins, laugh!)     When first I see a man, what do I first?     Why, count the letters which make up his name,     And as their number chances, even or odd,     Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course:     Hiram H. Horsefall is your honoured name,     And havent I found a patron, sir, in you?     Shall I cheat this stranger? I take apple-pips,     Stick one in either canthus of my eye,     And if the left drops first (your left, sir, stuck)     I m warned, I let the trick alone this time.     Yon, sir, who smile, superior to such trash,     You judge of character by other rules:     Dont your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what rule     Have you judged Sludge by hitherto?     Oh, be sure,     You, everybody blunders, just as I,     In simpler things than these by far! For see:     I knew two farmers, one, a wiseacre     Who studied seasons, rummaged almanacs,     Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost,     And then declared, for outcome of his pains,     Next summer must be dampish: t was a drought.     His neighbour prophesied such drought would fall,     Saved hay and corn, made cent. per cent. thereby,     And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore?     Because one brindled heifer, late in March,     Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehow     He got into his head that drought was meant!     I dont expect all men can do as much:     Such kissing goes by favour. You must take     A certain turn of mind for this, a twist     I the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive,     Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater,     Letting all natures loosely-guarded motes     Settle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourself     The one i the world, the one for whom the world     Was made, expect it tickling at your mouth!     Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies,     Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive,     Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.     I cant pretend to mind your smiling, sir!     Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way,     Close converse, frank exchange of offices,     Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great     With the infinitely small, betokened here     By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks,     Flow does it suit the dread traditional text     O the Great and Terrible Name? Shall the Heaven of Heavens     Stoop to such childs play?     Please, sir, go with me     A moment, and I ll try to answer you.     The Magnum et terribile (is that right?)     Well, folk began with this in the early day;     And all the acts they recognized in proof     Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt     Indisputably on men whose death they caused.     There, and there only, folk saw Providence     At work, and seeing it, t was right enough     All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain,     And knees knock hard together at the breath     O the Names first letter; why, the Jews, Im told,     Wont write it down, no, to this very hour,     Nor speak aloud; you know best if t be so.     Each ague-fit of fear at end, they crept     (Because somehow people once born must live)     Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o the Name,     Into a corner, the dark rest of the world,     And safe space where as yet no fear had reached;     T was there they looked about them, breathed again,     And felt indeed at home, as we might say.     The current o common things, the daily life,     This had their due contempt; no Name pursued     Man from the mountain-top where fires abide,     To his particular mouse-hole at its foot     Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short:     Such was mans vulgar business, far too small     To be worth thunder: small, folk kept on, small,     With much complacency in those great days!     A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass     What was so despicable as mere grass,     Except perhaps the life o the worm or fly     Which fed there? These were small and men were great.     Well, sir, the old ways altered somewhat since,     And the world wears another aspect now:     Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else     Puts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow big:     We find great things are made of little things,     And little things go lessening till at last     Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now?     We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites     That throng the mould, and God that makes the mites.     The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst,     The simplest of creations, just a sac     Thats mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet lives     And feels, and could do neither, we conclude,     If simplified still further one degree:     The small becomes the dreadful and immense     Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that!     A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk,     With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and theres     Your dollars-worth of lightning! But the cyst     The life of the least of the little things?     No, no!     Preachers and teachers try another tack,     Come near the truth this time: they put aside     Thunder and lightning: That s mistake, they cry,     Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport,     But do appreciable good, like tides,     Changes o the wind, and other natural facts     Good meaning good to man, his body or soul.     Mediate, immediate, all things minister     To man, that s settled: be our future text     We are His children! So, they now harangue     About the intention, the contrivance, all     That keeps up an incessant play of love,     See the Bridgewater book.     Amen to it!     Well, sir, I put this question: I m a child?     I lose no time, but take you at your word:     How shall I act a childs part properly?     Your sainted mother, sir, used you to live     With such a thought as this a-worrying you?     She has it in her power to throttle me,     Or stab or poison: she may turn me out,     Or lock me in, nor stop at this to-day,     But cut me off to-morrow from the estate     I look for (long may you enjoy it, sir!)     In brief, she may unchild the child I am.     You never had such crotchets? Nor have I!     Who, frank confessing childship from the first     Cannot both fear and take my ease at once,     So, dont fear, know what might be, well enough     But know too, child-like, that it will not be,     At least in my case, mine, the son and heir     O the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style.     But do you fancy I stop short at this?     Wonder if suit and service, son and heir     Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find?     If, looking for signs proper to such an one,     I straight perceive them irresistible?     Concede that homage is a sons plain right,     And, never mind the nods and raps and winks,     T is the pure obvious supernatural     Steps forward, does its duty: why, of course!     I have presentiments; my dreams come true:     I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white     Blithe as a boblink, and he s dead I learn.     I take dislike to a dog my favourite long,     And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps.     I guess that stranger will turn up to-day     I have not seen these three years; there s his knock     I wager sixty peaches on that tree!     That I pick up a dollar in my walk,     That your wifes brothers cousins name was George     And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this?     Youd fain distinguish between gift and gift,     Washingtons oracle and Sludges itch     O the elbow when at whist he ought to trump?     With Sludge its too absurd? Fine, draw the line     Somewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!     Bless us, Im turning poet! Its time to end.     How you have drawn me out, sir! All I ask     Is am I heir or not heir? If Im he,     Then, sir, remember, that same personage     (To judge by what we read i the newspaper)     Requires, beside one nobleman in gold     To carry up and down his coronet,     Another servant, probably a duke,     To hold egg-nogg in readiness: why want     Attendance, sir, when helps in his fathers house     Abound, I d like to know?     Enough of talk!     My fault is that I tell too plain a truth.     Why, which of those who say they disbelieve,     Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream,     Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact     He cant explain, (hell tell you smilingly)     Which he s too much of a philosopher     To count as supernatural, indeed,     So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it     Bidding you still be on your guard, you know,     Because one fact dont make a system stand,     Nor prove this an occasional escape     Of spirit beneath the matter: thats the way!     Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece,     The fact in California, the fine gold     That underlay the gravel hoarded these,     But never made a system stand, nor dug!     So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm     A handful of experience, sparkling fact     They cant explain; and since their rest of life     Is all explainable, what proof in this?     Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold,     And fling away the dirty rest of life,     And add this grain to the grain each fool has found     O the million other such philosophers,     Till I see gold, all gold and only gold,     Truth questionless though unexplainable,     And the miraculous proved the commonplace!     The other fools believed in mud, no doubt     Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange?     Are all men born to play Bachs fiddle-fugues,     Time with the foil in carte, jump their own height,     Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five,     Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nails     While swimming, in five minutes row a mile,     Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm,     Do sums of fifty figures in their head,     And so on, by the scores of instances?     The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts     His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank     With these, and share the advantage.     Ay, but share     The drawback! Think it over by yourself;     I have not heart, sir, and the fire s gone grey.     Defect somewhere compensates for success,     Everyone knows that. Oh, were equals, sir!     The big-legged fellow has a little arm     And a less brain, though big legs win the race:     Do you suppose I scape the common lot?     Say, I was born with flesh so sensitive,     Soul so alert, that, practice helping both,     I guess what s going on outside the veil,     Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time     In the islands where his kind are, so must fall     To capering by himself some shiny night,     As if your back-yard were a plot of spice     Thus am I ware o the spirit world: while you,     Blind as a beetle that way, for amends.     Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!     Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours,     Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,     Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,     Never brag, never bluster, never blush,     In short, youve pluck, when Im a coward there!     I know it, I cant help it, folly or no,     I m paralyzed, my hands no more a hand,     Nor my head a head, in danger: you can smile     And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift s not mine.     Would you swap for mine? No! but youd add my gift     To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,     Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,     Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much     Being dressed gaily, making strangers stare,     Eating nice things; when I d amuse myself,     I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain     I m now the President, now Jenny Lind,     Now Emerson, now the Benicia Boy     With all the civilized world a-wondering     And worshipping. I know it s folly and worse;     I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,     But I cant cure myself: despond, despair,     And then, hey, presto, there s a turn o the wheel,     Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends;     Sludge knows and sees and bears a hundred things     You all are blind to, I ve my taste of truth,     Likewise my touch of falsehood, vice no doubt,     But you ve your vices also: I m content.     What, sir? You wont shake hands? Because I cheat!     Youve found me out in cheating! Thats enough     To make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat,     Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act,     Are you, or, rather, am I sure o the fact?     (There s verse again, but I m inspired somehow.)     Well then I m not sure! I may be, perhaps,     Free as a babe from cheating: how it began,     My gift, no matter; what t is got to be     In the end now, that s the question; answer that!     Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine,     Leading me whither, I had died of fright:     So, I was made believe I led myself.     If I should lay a six-inch plank from roof     To roof, you would not cross the street, one step,     Even at your mothers summons: but, being shrewd     If I paste paper on each side the plank     And swear t is solid pavement, why, you ll cross     Humming a tune the while, in ignorance     Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below:     I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone.     Some impulse made me set a thing o the move     Which, started once, ran really by itself;     Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite,     It takes the wind and floats of its own force.     Dont let truths lump rot stagnant for the lack     Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it!     Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen,     She ll lay a real one, laudably deceived,     Daily for weeks to come. I ve told my lie,     And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine;     All was not cheating, sir, I m positive!     I dont know if I move your hand sometimes     When the spontaneous writing spreads so far,     If my knee lifts the table all that height,     Why the inkstand dont fall off the desk a-tilt,     Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz     Than I can pick out on the piano-forte,     Why I speak so much more than I intend,     Describe so many things I never saw.     I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believe     Nothing at all, that everybody can,     Will, and does cheat: but in another sense     Im ready to believe my very self     That every cheats inspired, and every lie     Quick with a germ of truth.     You ask perhaps     Why I should condescend to trick at all     If I know a way without it? This is why!     Theres a strange secret sweet self-sacrifice     In any desecration of ones soul     To a worthy end, isnt it Herodotus     (I wish I could read Latin!) who describes     The single gift o the lands virginity,     Demanded in those old Egyptian rites,     (Ive but a hazy notion help me, sir!)     For one purpose in the world, one day in a life,     One hour in a day thereafter, purity,     And a veil thrown oer the past for evermore!     Well, now, they understood a many things     Down by Nile city, or wherever it was!     Ive always vowed, after the minutes lie,     And the ends gain, truth should be mine henceforth.     This goes to the root o the matter, sir, this plain     Plump fact: accept it and unlock with it     The wards of many a puzzle!     Or, finally,     Why should I set so fine a gloss on things?     What need I care? I cheat in self-defence,     And theres my answer to a world of cheats!     Cheat? To be sure, sir! What s the world worth else?     Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars?     Dont it want trimming, turning, furbishing up     And polishing over? Your so-styled great men,     Do they accept one truth as truth is found,     Or try their skill at tinkering? Whats your world?     Here are you born, who are, Ill say at once,     Of the luckiest kind, whether in head and heart,     Body and soul, or all that helps them both.     Well, now, look back: what faculty of yours     Came to its full, had ample justice done     By growing when rain fell, biding its time,     Solidifying growth when earth was dead,     Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due?     Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off,     Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout;     One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end,     All you boast is I had proved a topping tree     In other climes yet this was the right clime     Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, youve force     Wasted like well-streams: old, oh, then indeed,     Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes     Through which youd play off wondrous waterwork;     Only, no water s left to feed their play.     Young, you ve a hope, an aim, a love: it s tossed     And crossed and lost: you struggle on, some spark     Shut in your heart against the puffs around,     Through cold and pain; these in due time subside,     Now then for ages triumph, the hoarded light     You mean to loose on the altered face of things,     Up with it on the tripod! It s extinct.     Spend your lifes remnant asking, which was best,     Light smothered up that never peeped forth once,     Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine?     Well, accept this too, seek the fruit of it     Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth,     But knowledge, useful for a second chance,     Another life, you ve lost this world you ve gained     Its knowledge for the next. What knowledge, sir,     Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubt     Whether t were better have made you man or brute,     If aught be true, if good and evil clash.     No foul, no fair, no inside, no outside,     Theres your world!     Give it me! I slap it brisk     With harlequins pasteboard sceptre: what s it now?     Changed like a rock-flat, rough with rusty weed,     At first wash-over o the returning wave!     All the dry dead impracticable stuff     Starts into life and light again; this world     Pervaded by the influx from the next.     I cheat, and what s the happy consequence?     You find full justice straightway dealt you out,     Each want supplied, each ignorance set at ease,     Each folly fooled. No life-long labour now     As the price of worse than nothing! No mere film     Holding you chained in iron, as it seems,     Against the outstretch of your very arms     And legs i the sunshine moralists forbid!     What would you have? Just speak and, there, you see!     You re supplemented, made a whole at last,     Bacon advises, Shakespeare writes you songs,     And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you.     Thus it goes on, not quite like life perhaps,     But so near, that the very difference piques,     Shows that een better than this best will be     This passing entertainment in a hut     Whose bare walls take your taste since, one stage more,     And you arrive at the palace: all half real,     And you, to suit it, less than real beside,     In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life,     That helps the interchange of natures, flesh     Transfused by souls, and such souls! Oh, t is choice!     And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin,     Seem nigh on bursting, if you nearly see     The real world through the false, what do you see?     Is the old so ruined? You find you re in a flock     O the youthful, earnest, passionate genius, beauty,     Rank and wealth also, if you care for these:     And all depose their natural rights, hail you,     (That s me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow,     Participate in Sludgehood nay, grow mine,     I veritably possess them banish doubt,     And reticence and modesty alike!     Why, here s the Golden Age, old Paradise     Or new Eutopia! Here s true life indeed,     And the world well won now, mine for the first time!     And all this might be, may be, and with good help     Of a little lying shall be: so, Sludge lies!     Why, he s at worst your poet who sings how Greeks     That never were, in Troy which never was,     Did this or the other impossible great thing!     Hes Lowell it s a world (you smile applause),     Of his own invention wondrous Longfellow,     Surprising Hawthorne! Sludge does more than they,     And acts the books they write: the more his praise!     But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose     Dealers in common sense, set these at work,     What can they do without their helpful lies?     Each states the law and fact and face o the thing     Just as hed have them, finds what he thinks fit,     Is blind to what missuits him, just records     What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest.     It s a History of the World, the Lizard Age,     The Early Indians, the Old Country War,     Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please,     All as the author wants it. Such a scribe     You pay and praise for putting life in stones,     Fire into fog, making the past your world.     Theres plenty of How did you contrive to grasp     The thread which led you through this labyrinth?     How build such solid fabric out of air?     How on so slight foundation found this tale?     Biography, narrative? or, in other words,     How many lies did it require to make     The portly truth you here present us with?     Oh, quoth the penman, purring at your praise,     T is fancy all; no particle of fact:     I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book     Bliss in the Golden City. I, at Thebes?     We writers paint out of our heads, you see!     Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you,     The more creativeness and godlike craft!     But I, do I present you with my piece,     It s What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke     The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed     About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven     Where she and Queen Elizabeth kept house,     You made the raps? T was your invention that?     Cur, slave and devil! eight fingers and two thumbs     Stuck in my throat!     Well, if the marks seem gone     T is because stiffish cock-tail, taken in time,     Is better for a bruise than arnica.     There, sir! I bear no malice: t isnt in me.     I know I acted wrongly: still, I ve tried     What I could say in my excuse, to show     The devil s not all devil . . . I dont pretend,     Hes angel, much less such a gentleman     As you, sir! And Ive lost you, lost myself,     Lost all-l-l-l- . . .     No are you in earnest, sir?     O yours, sir, is an angels part! I know     What prejudice prompts, and whats the common course     Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit:     Only you rise superior to it all!     No, sir, it dont hurt much; it s speaking long     That makes me choke a little: the marks will go!     What? Twenty V-notes more, and outfit too,     And not a word to Greeley? One one kiss     O the hand that saves me! Youll not let me speak,     I well know, and I ve lost the right, too true!     But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does)     Your sainted . . . Well, sir, be it so! Thats, I think,     My bed-room candle. Good-night!!Bl-l-less you, sir.     R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard! Cowardly scamp!     I only wish I dared burn down the house     And spoil your sniggering! Oh what, youre the man     You re satisfied at last? You ve found out Sludge?     We ll see that presently: my turn, sir, next!     I too can tell my story: brute, do you hear?     You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag,     In just such a fit of passion: no, it was . . .     To get this house of hers, and many a note     Like these. . . Ill pocket them, however . . . five,     Ten, fifteen . . . ay, you gave her throat the twist,     Or else you poisoned her! Confound the cuss!     Where was my head? I ought to have prophesied     He ll die in a year and join her: that s the way.     I dont know where my head is: what had I done?     How did it all go? I said he poisoned her,     And hoped he d have grace given him to repent,     Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me     And called me cheat: I thrashed him, who could help?     He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees     To cut and run and save him from disgrace:     I do so, and once off, he slanders me.     An end of him! Begin elsewhere anew!     Bostons a hole, the herring-pond is wide,     V-notes are something, liberty still more.     Beside, is he the only fool in the world?