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
[260] 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 carver’s 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,
[270] 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, ma’am.’ – ‘So we thought!
And any voice? Not yet? Try hard, next time,
If you can’t hear a voice; we think you may:
[280] 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 acknowledgement?
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,
[290] 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
[300] As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. ’Tis soon,
‘Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry,
Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!’
I’m 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
[310] 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
[320] To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts.
You see, their world’s much like a gaol 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; he’s the medium-pane
Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep:
They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,
Tread on their neighbour’s kibes, play tricks enough!
Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside?
[330] 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
[340] New music he’s 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, naught else,
The Shakers’ Hymn in G, with a natural F,
Or the “Stars and Stripes” set to consecutive fourths.’
Sir, where’s 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!)
[350] Pray do you find guests criticize your wine,
Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose?
Then, why your ‘medium’? What’s the difference?
Prove your madeira red-ink and gamboge, –
Your Sludge, a cheat – then, somebody’s a goose
For vaunting both as genuine. ‘Guests!’ Don’t 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 what’s the consequence? ‘Of course they doubt’ –
[360] (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,” –’twas the test of truth!’
In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more.
Does this convince? The better: does it fail?
[370] 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!’
[380] Out slinks the sceptic, all the laughs explode,
Sludge waves his hat in triumph!
Or – he don’t.
There’s something in real truth (explain who can!)
One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse
Who mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won’t 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,
[390] But o’er 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.
[400] 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 cheating’s nursed
Out of the lying, softly and surely spun
To just your length, sir! I’d stop soon enough:
But you’re for progress. ‘All old, nothing new?
Only the usual talking through the mouth,
Or writing by the hand? I own, I thought
[410] This would develop, grow demonstrable,
Make doubt absurd, give figures we might see,
Flowers we might touch. There’s 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: there’s no avoiding fate.
[420] ’Tis a trifle at first. ‘Eh, David? Did you hear?
You jogged the table, your foot caused the squeak,
This time you’re … joking, are you not, my boy?’
‘N-n-no!’ – and I’m done for, bought and sold henceforth.
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,
[430] ’Tis done with and my lot cast; Cheat’s my name:
The fatal dash of brandy in your tea
Has settled what you’ll have the souchong’s smack:
The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle.
Then, it’s so cruel easy! Oh, those tricks
That can’t be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand,
Clearly no common conjurer’s! – no indeed!
A conjurer? Choose me any craft i’ the world
A man puts hand to; and with six months’ pains,
I’ll play you twenty tricks miraculous
[440] 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!
[450] 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 candour’s sake!
I’ll try and cheat you, Judge! The table tilts:
Is it I that move it? Write! I’ll press your hand:
Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge!’
[460] 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, I’d say, … no matter!
Well, sir, if you fail, you can’t take us in, –
There’s little fear that Sludge will!’
Won’t he, ma’am?
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,
[470] And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt?
Eh? That’s a capital point, ma’am: 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!
[480] One’s at one’s ease with Saul and Jonathan,
Pompey and Caesar: but one’s 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,
[490] Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try
And touch the truth. ‘Tests? Didn’t the creature tell
Its nurse’s 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!
[500] What? Do you live in this world’s blow of blacks,
Palaver, gossipry, a single hour
Nor find one smut has settled on your nose,
Of a smut’s worth, no more, no less? – one fact
Out of the drift of facts, whereby you learn
What someone was, somewhere, somewhen, somewhy?
You don’t 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!’ –
[510] 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,
[520] 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
[530] 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,
He’d engage tell you some one little thing
Of some one man, which led to many more,
(Because one truth leads right to the world’s end)
And make you that man’s master – when he dined
And on what dish, where walked to keep his health
And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus
[540] His sense out, like an ant-eater’s long tongue,
Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible,
And when ’twas crusted o’er 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 rotten 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,
[550] All today’s tale, how you detected Sludge,
Behaved unpleasantly, till he was fain confess,
And so has come to grief! You’ll find, I think,
Why Sludge still snaps his fingers in your face.
There now, you’ve told them! What’s their prompt reply?
‘Sir, did that youth confess he had cheated me,
I’d disbelieve him. He may cheat at times;
That’s in the “medium”-nature, thus they’re made,
Vain and vindictive, cowards, prone to scratch.
And so all cats are; still, a cat’s the beast
[560] You coax the strange electric sparks from out,
By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog,
Nor lion, nor lamb: ’tis the cat’s nature, sir!
Why not the dog’s? 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,
’Tis these hysteric, hybrid half-and-halfs,
Equivocal, worthless vermin yield the fire!
We take such as we find them, ’ware their tricks,
[570] Wanting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you –
How, I can’t 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 hear’s my best word? ’Tis a challenge;
‘Snap at all strangers, half-tamed prairie-dog,
So you cower duly at your keeper’s beck!
Cat, show what claws were made for, muffling them
Only to me! Cheat others if you can,
[580] 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 they’d 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
[590] 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 ghost’s 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!’
Don’t talk of gratitude to me! For what?
[600] For being treated as a showman’s 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
[610] 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 I’ve 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
[620] Made light of: something like old prints, my dear!
The Judge has one, he brought from Italy,
A metropolis in the background, – o’er 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!’
[630] If such as came for wool, sir, went home shorn,
Where is the wrong I did them? ’Twas their choice;
They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed up
And lost, as some one’s 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!
[640] They’ve had their peep into the spirit-world,
And all this world may know it! They’ve fed fat
Their self-conceit which else had starved: what chance
Save this, of cackling o’er 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 play’s worth. When you buy
The actor’s talent, do you dare propose
[650] For his soul beside? Whereas my soul you buy!
Sludge acts Macbeth, obliged to be Macbeth,
Or you’ll 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 hadn’t I leave to play tricks, Sludge as Sludge?
Enough of it all! I’ve wiped out scores with you –
Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked
Like tom-fool with your ochre and carmine,
[660] Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewed
To metamorphose somebody, – yes, I’ve 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!
I’ll stick to that! With my phenomena
I laid the atheist sprawling on his back,
Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg!
In fact, it’s just the proper way to balk
These troublesome fellows – liars, one and all,
[670] 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, there’s 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,
[680] Breeding belief anew ’neath ribs of death,
Browbeating now the unabashed before,
Ridding us of their whole life’s 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,
[690] In wisely being blind to it! Don’t you praise
Nelson for setting spy-glass to blind eye
And 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, ’tis never pure and full belief;
Those furthest in the quagmire, – don’t suppose
They strayed there with no warning, got no chance
[700] 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’: ’twas 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? –
[710] 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 can’t imitate
The baby voice, though) ‘In so many tales
Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big,
[720] 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 judgement-seat at once, – why don’t you note
The limpid nature, the unblemished life,
The spotless honour, indisputable sense
Of the first upstart with his story? What –
[730] Outrage a boy on whom you ne’er 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!
[740] – 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!
Didn’t 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
[750] O’ the doctrine, flavours thence, he well knows how,
The narrative or the novel, – half-believes,
All for the book’s sake, and the public’s stare,
And the cash that’s God’s 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,
[760] 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 triumph’s smack!
That man would choose to see the whole world roll
I’ the slime o’ the slough, so he might touch the tip
[770] 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 sage’s, 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!
[780] 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:
[790] 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 don’t 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?
You’ve heard what I confess; I don’t unsay
[800] 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 can’t help that.
It’s truth! I somehow vomit truth today.
This trade of mine – I don’t know, can’t be sure
[810] 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, – don’t 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,
[820] 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,
[830] Proportionate to advancement: they’re ahead,
That’s 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 Bible’s 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,
[840] Till it’s found bone of bone and flesh of flesh.
See now, we start with the miraculous,
And know it used to be, at all events:
What’s the first step we take, and can’t but take,
In arguing from the known to the obscure?
Why this: ‘What was before, may be today.
Since Samuel’s ghost appeared to Saul, of course
My brother’s spirit may appear to me.’
Go tell your teacher that! What’s his reply?
What brings a shade of doubt for the first time
[850] O’er his brow late so luminous with faith?
‘Such things have been,’ says he, ‘and there’s 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, there’s a composition struck;
’Tis settled, we’ve some way of intercourse
Just as in Saul’s time; only, different:
How, when and where, precisely, – find it out!
[860] I want to know, then, what’s 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
[870] 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 won’t let me say, –
Well, seer of the supernatural
Everywhen, every how 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,
[880] 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 Year’s Eve
And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed,
Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate
[890] O’ the sum that came to grief the day before.
This could not last long: soon enough I found
Who had worked wonder 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,
[900] 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
[910] Inside a raree-show and a market-mob
Gathered about it: that’s the use of things.
’Tis 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 world’s sun: doesn’t 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
[920] To all the acknowledged uses, and declare
If I spy Charles’s Wain at twelve tonight,
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
[930] Kept on kings’ heads by miracle enough,
But private mercies – oh, you’ve 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,
[940] 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 who cannot boast the like escape,
Suppose I said ‘I don’t thank Providence
[950] For my part, owing it no gratitude’?
‘Nay, but you owe as much’ – you’d 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 don’t they see?
‘Because they won’t look, – or perhaps, they can’t.’
Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and do
Look, microscopically as is right,
Into each hour with its infinitude
[960] Of influences at work to profit Sludge?
For that’s the case: I’ve sharpened up my sight
To spy a providence in the fire’s going out,
The kettle’s boiling, the dime’s 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,
[970] 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, I’ll 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 ‘tis Providence’s whim and way
With only me, i’ the world: how can you tell?
‘Because unlikely!’ Was it likelier, now,
[980] That this our one out of all worlds beside,
The what-d’you-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 don’t question. It’s pure grace, my luck:
[990] 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
Reason’s clear tingle, nature’s clapper brisk,
Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer
Your mother’s face turned heavenward: short of these
[1000] 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
[1010] O’ the very stuff, life of life, and self of self.
I tell you, men won’t 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
There’s something in it all, I know: how much?
No answer! What does that prove? Man’s still man,
Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work
When all’s done; but, if somewhat’s done, like this,
[1020] 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 o’er 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,
[1030] And as their number chances, even or odd,
Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course:
Hiram H. Horsefall is your honoured name,
And haven’t 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.
You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash,
You judge of character by other rules:
[1040] Don’t 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: ’twas a drought.
His neighbour prophesied such drought would fall,
[1050] 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 don’t expect all men can do as much:
Such kissing goes by favour.
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