Chapter 54

Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me! Just this once!This was the first and only time, I 'll swear,—Look at me,—see, I kneel,—the only time,I swear, I ever cheated,—yes, by the soulOf 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 spirit's, whose soft breath even nowBlows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir?)You 'll tell?Go tell, then! Who the devil caresWhat 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 wordsOf 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 soonA trifle of trick, all through a glass too muchOf his own champagne, would change my best of friendsInto an angry gentleman!Though, 't was wrong.I don't contest the point; your anger 's just:Whatever put such folly in my head,I know 't was wicked of me. There 's a thickDusk undeveloped spirit (I 've observed)Owes me a grudge—a negro's, I should say,Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourselfExplained the case so well last Sunday, sir,When we had summoned Franklin to clear upA 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 ... don't take your hand away,Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand ...You 'll promise to forgive me?—or, at least,Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!What harm can mercy do? Would but the shadeOf the venerable dead-one just vouchsafeA 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 childForgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'T was your foot,And not a natural creak, sir?Answer, then!Once, twice, thrice ... see, I 'm waiting to say "thrice!"All to no use? No sort of hope for me?It 's all to post to Greeley's newspaper?What? If I told you all about the tricks?Upon my soul!—the whole truth, and naught 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?England 's the place, not Boston—no offence!I see what makes you hesitate: don't 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 V's must do.A trifle, though, to start with! We 'll referThe 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 you 'll have forced me! Who 's obligedTo give up life yet try no 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 eggnog and cigar!I 've been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs,And sympathetic sideboards; what an endTo 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-liddle-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 clawTo the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost,Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perchBecause you chose it, so it must be safe.Oh, otherwise you 're sharp enough! You spyWho slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing,Wanting real foothold,—who can't keep uprightOn the other perch, your neighbor 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, supposeA poor lad, say a help's son in your house,Listening at keyholes, hears the companyTalk 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—"I've got a V-note!"—what do you say to him?What 's your first word which follows your last kick?"Where did you steal it, rascal?" That 's becauseHe finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch,Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir,Elected your parade-ground: let him tryLies 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 caseWith cowhide? "Lies, lies, lies," you 'd shout: and why?Which of the stories might not prove mere truth?This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin!Let 's see, now, give him me to speak for him!How many of your rare philosophers,In plaguy books I 've had to dip into,Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made,And made it? Oh, with such philosophersYou 're on your best behavior! 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 grandAt the same keyhole, you and company,Of signs and wonders, the invisible world;How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbeliefMore 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,Isaw a ghost!"Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim;It 's a conceit of yours that ghosts may be:There 's no talk now of cowhide. "Tell it out!Don't 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 candor, all 's considerateness—"No haste!Pause and collect yourself! We understand!That 's the bad memory, or the natural shock,Or the unexplainedphenomena!"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 postTo 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, that 's 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 thoseApt 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 henceforthGives it his name, grows notable: how much more,Who ferrets out a "medium"? "David's yours,You highly-favored man? Then, pity soulsLess 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 grubsBy the name of what they 'll turn to, dragon-flies.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 upEach dull old bit of fact that drops its shine.One does see somewhat when one shuts one's eyes,If only spots and streaks; tables do tipIn 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 divesAnd 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, who 'd have thought it!" But there 's always oneLooks wise, compassionately smiles, submits,"Of your veracity no kind of doubt,But—do you feel so certain of that boy's?Really, I wonder! I confess myselfMore 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 turn to crow:"He 's kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats?Leave you alone to take precautions!"StraightThe rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed,Sips silent some such beverage as this,Considers if it be harder, shutting eyesAnd gulping David in good fellowship,Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange,With no eggnog 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 plumpIf 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,David's 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 toolThat law exclaims at, save the devil's own,Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling youTo the top o' your bent,—all out of one half-lie!You hold, if there 's one half or a hundredth partOf 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 cloverThese three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!"I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know,Twelve months hence, with how few embellishmentsYou 've told almighty Boston of this passageOf arms between us, your first taste o' the foilFrom Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy!I lied, sir,—there! I got up from my gorgeOn offal in the gutter, and preferredYour canvas-backs: I took their carver's size,Measured his modicum of intelligence,Tickled him on the cockles of his heartWith a raven feather, and next week found myselfSweet 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 uncoilAnd 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:At least, the Pennsylvanian 'mediums' did."Oh, next time comes the voice! "Just as we hoped!"Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuseO' 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 Horse-shoe: 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 yourselfHow 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 himAmong his mates on a bright April morn,With the turf to tread; see if you find or noA caper in him, if he bucks or bolts!Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rankAs 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!"I 'm spared all further trouble; all 's arranged;Your circle does my business; I may raveLike an epileptic dervish in the books,Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds;No matter: lovers, friends and countrymenWill lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things rightBy the rule o' reverse. If Francis VerulamStyles himself Bacon, spells the name besideWith ayand ak, 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' individualityIs hard to put in evidence: they inclineTo 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; he 's the medium-paneThrough which, to see us and be seen, they peep:They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,Tread on their neighbor's 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 meansSpirits 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 strainedTo half-expression through his ignorance.Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shedNew music he 's brimful of; why, he turnsThe handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,And what he poured in at the mouth o' the millAs 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 folkWho came to see,—the guests, (observe that word!)Pray do you find guests criticise 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 gooseFor 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, sometimesThey doubt and say as much!" Ay, doubt they do!And what 's 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, promptApplaud the faithful: cases flock in point,"How, when a mocker willed a 'medium' onceShould 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 hearIn our own house, from our invited guestFound brave enough to outrage a poor boyExposed 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 skeptic, 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 horseWho mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won't munchBecause he spies a corn-bag: hang that truth,It spoils all dainties proffered in its place!I 've felt at times when, cockered, cossetedAnd coddled by the aforesaid company,Bidden enjoy their bullying,—never fear,But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying man,—I 've felt a child; only, a fractious childThat, 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 askanceThe 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 gray old cat she is.I 've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them,Huggings and humbug—gnashed my teeth to markA 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 nursedOut of the lying, softly and surely spunTo 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 thoughtThis 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 skeptics' 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.'T is 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 henceforthThe 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,—anyhow,'T is done with and my lot cast; Cheat 's my name:The fatal dash of brandy in your teaHas 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 tricksThat 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 worldA man puts hand to; and with six months' pains,I 'll play you twenty tricks miraculousTo 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 flatTo the oven? Try and do it! Take my word,Practice 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 gloveAt end o' your slipper,—then put out the lightsAnd ... 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 candor'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!"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 rapsWas just a certain child who died, you know,And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt?Eh? That 's a capital point, ma'am: Sludge beginsAt 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!One 's at one's ease with Saul and Jonathan,Pompey and Cæsar: but one's own lost child ...I wonder, when you heard the first clod dropFrom the spadeful at the grave-side, felt you freeTo investigate who twitched your funeral scarfOr 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 tryAnd touch the truth. "Tests? Did n't the creature tellIts 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 sawOnce,—never mind where, how, why, when,—once saw,Of whom I do not keep some matter in mindHe 'd swear I "could not" know, sagacious soul!What? Do you live in this world's blow of blacks,Palaver, gossipry, a single hourNor find one smut has settled on your nose,Of a smut's worth, no more, no less?—one factOut of the drift of facts, whereby you learnWhat some one 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 wifeThought 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 youshould,Because one day there 's much use,—when this factBrings you the Judge upon both gouty kneesBefore the supernatural; proves that SludgeKnows, 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 hereAnd gets his bread,—knowing no better way:He says, the fellow who informed of himAnd 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 worldRoll round his three-legged stool, and news run inThe 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 thingOf 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 dinedAnd on what dish, where walked to keep his healthAnd to what street. His trade was, throwing thusHis sense out, like an ant-eater's long tongue,Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible,And when 't was 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 depthI' 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,All to-day'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 beastYou coax the strange electric sparks from out,By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog,Nor lion, nor lamb: 't is 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,'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 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? 'T is 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 themOnly 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 manlinessTo 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 foolWhen, to an awe-struck wide-eyed open-mouthedCircle of sages, Sludge would introduceMilton composing baby-rhymes, and LockeReasoning in gibberish, Homer writing GreekIn naughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalmsTo crotchet and quaver? I 've made a spirit squeakIn sham voice for a minute, then outbrokeBold 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?For being treated as a showman's ape,Encouraged to be wicked and make sport,Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any moodSo 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 climbTo cure your chimney, bid a "medium" lieTo sweep you truth down! Curse your women too,Your insolent wives and daughters, that fire upOr faint away if a male hand squeeze theirs,Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with SludgeAs only a "medium," only the kind of thingThey must humor, fondle ... oh, to misconceiveWere 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 worldAll our conventions are reversed,—perhapsMade 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 groupsOf 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? 'Twas their choice;They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed upAnd lost, as some one's sure to do in games;They fancied I was made to lose,—smoked glassUseful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes:And had I proved a red-hot iron plateThey 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!They 've had their peep into the spirit-world,And all this world may know it! They 've fed fatTheir self-conceit which else had starved: what chanceSave this, of cackling o'er a golden eggAnd 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 buyThe actor's talent, do you dare proposeFor 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 throughThat 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 had n'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 streakedLike tom-fool with your ochre and carmine,Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewedTo metamorphose somebody,—yes, I've earnedMy 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 myphenomenaI laid the atheist sprawling on his back,Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg!In fact, it 's just the proper way to balkThese troublesome fellows—liars, one and all,Are not these skeptics? 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,Breeding belief anew 'neath ribs of death,Browbeating now the unabashed before,Ridding us of their whole life's gathered strawsBy a live coal from the altar! Why, of old,Great men spent years and years in writing booksTo 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 supposeHe let escape some spice of knavery,—well,In wisely being blind to it! Don't you praiseNelson for setting spy-glass to blind eyeAnd saying ... what was it—that he could not seeThe signal he was bothered with? Ay, indeed!

Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me! Just this once!

This was the first and only time, I 'll 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 spirit's, whose soft breath even nowBlows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir?)You 'll tell?

"Get up?"

You still inflict on me that terrible face?

You show no mercy?—Not for Her dear sake,

The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now

Blows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir?)

You 'll tell?

Go tell, then! Who the devil caresWhat such a rowdy chooses to ...

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!

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 wordsOf 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 soonA trifle of trick, all through a glass too muchOf his own champagne, would change my best of friendsInto an angry gentleman!

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 don't contest the point; your anger 's just:Whatever put such folly in my head,I know 't was wicked of me. There 's a thickDusk undeveloped spirit (I 've observed)Owes me a grudge—a negro's, I should say,Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourselfExplained the case so well last Sunday, sir,When we had summoned Franklin to clear upA 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 ... don't take your hand away,Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand ...You 'll promise to forgive me?—or, at least,Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!What harm can mercy do? Would but the shadeOf the venerable dead-one just vouchsafeA 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 childForgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'T was your foot,And not a natural creak, sir?

Though, 't was wrong.

I don't contest the point; your anger 's 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 negro's, I should say,

Or else an Irish emigrant's; 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 ... don't take your hand away,

Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand ...

You 'll 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, I 'm waiting to say "thrice!"All to no use? No sort of hope for me?It 's all to post to Greeley's newspaper?

Answer, then!

Once, twice, thrice ... see, I 'm waiting to say "thrice!"

All to no use? No sort of hope for me?

It 's all to post to Greeley's newspaper?

What? If I told you all about the tricks?Upon my soul!—the whole truth, and naught 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?England 's the place, not Boston—no offence!I see what makes you hesitate: don't 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 V's must do.A trifle, though, to start with! We 'll referThe question to this table?

What? If I told you all about the tricks?

Upon my soul!—the whole truth, and naught 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?

England 's the place, not Boston—no offence!

I see what makes you hesitate: don't 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 V's 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 you 'll have forced me! Who 's obligedTo give up life yet try no self-defence?At all events, I 'll run the risk. Eh?

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 you 'll have forced me! Who 's obliged

To give up life yet try no 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 eggnog and cigar!I 've been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs,And sympathetic sideboards; what an endTo 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!

Done!

May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now!

Please, sir, a parting eggnog 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-liddle-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 clawTo the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost,Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perchBecause you chose it, so it must be safe.Oh, otherwise you 're sharp enough! You spyWho slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing,Wanting real foothold,—who can't keep uprightOn the other perch, your neighbor 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, supposeA poor lad, say a help's son in your house,Listening at keyholes, hears the companyTalk 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—"I've got a V-note!"—what do you say to him?What 's your first word which follows your last kick?"Where did you steal it, rascal?" That 's becauseHe finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch,Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir,Elected your parade-ground: let him tryLies 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 caseWith cowhide? "Lies, lies, lies," you 'd shout: and why?Which of the stories might not prove mere truth?This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin!Let 's see, now, give him me to speak for him!How many of your rare philosophers,In plaguy books I 've had to dip into,Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made,And made it? Oh, with such philosophersYou 're on your best behavior! 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.

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-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 can't keep upright

On the other perch, your neighbor 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 help's 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—

"I've got a V-note!"—what do you say to him?

What 's 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 cowhide? "Lies, lies, lies," you 'd shout: and why?

Which of the stories might not prove mere truth?

This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin!

Let 's see, now, give him me to speak for him!

How many of your rare philosophers,

In plaguy books I 've had to dip into,

Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made,

And made it? Oh, with such philosophers

You 're on your best behavior! 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 grandAt the same keyhole, you and company,Of signs and wonders, the invisible world;How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbeliefMore 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,Isaw a ghost!"Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim;It 's a conceit of yours that ghosts may be:There 's no talk now of cowhide. "Tell it out!Don't 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 candor, all 's considerateness—"No haste!Pause and collect yourself! We understand!That 's the bad memory, or the natural shock,Or the unexplainedphenomena!"

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,Isaw a ghost!"

Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim;

It 's a conceit of yours that ghosts may be:

There 's no talk now of cowhide. "Tell it out!

Don't 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 candor, all 's considerateness—"No haste!

Pause and collect yourself! We understand!

That 's the bad memory, or the natural shock,

Or the unexplainedphenomena!"

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 postTo 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!"

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, that 's 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 thoseApt 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 henceforthGives it his name, grows notable: how much more,Who ferrets out a "medium"? "David's yours,You highly-favored man? Then, pity soulsLess 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.

There, sir, that 's 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-favored 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 grubsBy the name of what they 'll turn to, dragon-flies.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 upEach dull old bit of fact that drops its shine.One does see somewhat when one shuts one's eyes,If only spots and streaks; tables do tipIn 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.

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 they 'll turn to, dragon-flies.

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 one's 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 divesAnd 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, who 'd have thought it!" But there 's always oneLooks wise, compassionately smiles, submits,"Of your veracity no kind of doubt,But—do you feel so certain of that boy's?Really, I wonder! I confess myselfMore 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 turn to crow:"He 's kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats?Leave you alone to take precautions!"

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, who 'd have thought it!" But there 's always one

Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits,

"Of your veracity no kind of doubt,

But—do you feel so certain of that boy's?

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 turn to crow:

"He 's kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats?

Leave you alone to take precautions!"

StraightThe rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed,Sips silent some such beverage as this,Considers if it be harder, shutting eyesAnd gulping David in good fellowship,Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange,With no eggnog 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 plumpIf you 'd be free o' the stove-side, rocking-chair,And trio of affable daughters?

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 eggnog 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,David's 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 toolThat law exclaims at, save the devil's own,Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling youTo the top o' your bent,—all out of one half-lie!

Doubt succumbs!

Victory! All your circle 's yours again!

Out of the clubbing of submissive wits,

David's 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 law exclaims at, save the devil's 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 partOf 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 cloverThese three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!"I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know,Twelve months hence, with how few embellishmentsYou 've told almighty Boston of this passageOf arms between us, your first taste o' the foilFrom Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy!I lied, sir,—there! I got up from my gorgeOn offal in the gutter, and preferredYour canvas-backs: I took their carver's size,Measured his modicum of intelligence,Tickled him on the cockles of his heartWith a raven feather, and next week found myselfSweet 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 uncoilAnd 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:At least, the Pennsylvanian 'mediums' did."Oh, next time comes the voice! "Just as we hoped!"Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuseO' the natural acknowledgment?

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 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,

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:

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 Horse-shoe: 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 yourselfHow 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 himAmong his mates on a bright April morn,With the turf to tread; see if you find or noA caper in him, if he bucks or bolts!Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rankAs 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!"I 'm spared all further trouble; all 's arranged;Your circle does my business; I may raveLike an epileptic dervish in the books,Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds;No matter: lovers, friends and countrymenWill lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things rightBy the rule o' reverse. If Francis VerulamStyles himself Bacon, spells the name besideWith ayand ak, 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' individualityIs hard to put in evidence: they inclineTo 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; he 's the medium-paneThrough which, to see us and be seen, they peep:They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,Tread on their neighbor's 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!'

Of course!

So, off we push, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat,

On we sweep with a cataract ahead,

We 're midway to the Horse-shoe: 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!"

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

Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside

With ayand ak, 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; 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 neighbor's 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 meansSpirits 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 strainedTo half-expression through his ignorance.Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shedNew music he 's brimful of; why, he turnsThe handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,And what he poured in at the mouth o' the millAs 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."

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 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 folkWho came to see,—the guests, (observe that word!)Pray do you find guests criticise 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 gooseFor 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.

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!)

Pray do you find guests criticise 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, sometimesThey doubt and say as much!" Ay, doubt they do!And what 's 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, promptApplaud the faithful: cases flock in point,"How, when a mocker willed a 'medium' onceShould 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 hearIn our own house, from our invited guestFound brave enough to outrage a poor boyExposed 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 skeptic, all the laughs explode,Sludge waves his hat in triumph!

"No, sometimes

They doubt and say as much!" Ay, doubt they do!

And what 's 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 skeptic, 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 horseWho mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won't munchBecause he spies a corn-bag: hang that truth,It spoils all dainties proffered in its place!I 've felt at times when, cockered, cossetedAnd coddled by the aforesaid company,Bidden enjoy their bullying,—never fear,But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying man,—I 've felt a child; only, a fractious childThat, 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 askanceThe 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 gray old cat she is.I 've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them,Huggings and humbug—gnashed my teeth to markA decent dog pass! It 's too bad, I say,Ruining a soul so!

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,

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 gray 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 cheating 's nursedOut of the lying, softly and surely spunTo 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 thoughtThis 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 skeptics' sake, to stop all mouths.We want some outward manifestation!—well,The Pennsylvanians gained such; why not Sludge?He may improve with time!"

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

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 skeptics' 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.'T is 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 henceforthThe 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,—anyhow,'T is done with and my lot cast; Cheat 's my name:The fatal dash of brandy in your teaHas settled what you 'll have the souchong's smack:The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle.

Ay, that he may!

He sees his lot: there 's 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 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,—anyhow,

'T is 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 tricksThat 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 worldA man puts hand to; and with six months' pains,I 'll play you twenty tricks miraculousTo 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 flatTo the oven? Try and do it! Take my word,Practice 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 gloveAt end o' your slipper,—then put out the lightsAnd ... there, there, all you want you 'll get, I hope!I found it slip, easy as an old shoe.

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

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,

Practice 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 candor'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!"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!"

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 candor'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!"

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 rapsWas just a certain child who died, you know,And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt?Eh? That 's a capital point, ma'am: Sludge beginsAt 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!One 's at one's ease with Saul and Jonathan,Pompey and Cæsar: but one's own lost child ...I wonder, when you heard the first clod dropFrom the spadeful at the grave-side, felt you freeTo investigate who twitched your funeral scarfOr 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 tryAnd touch the truth. "Tests? Did n't the creature tellIts nurse's name, and say it lived six years,And rode a rocking-horse? Enough of tests!Sludge never could learn that!"

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,

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!

One 's at one's ease with Saul and Jonathan,

Pompey and Cæsar: 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,

Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try

And touch the truth. "Tests? Did n'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 sawOnce,—never mind where, how, why, when,—once saw,Of whom I do not keep some matter in mindHe 'd swear I "could not" know, sagacious soul!What? Do you live in this world's blow of blacks,Palaver, gossipry, a single hourNor find one smut has settled on your nose,Of a smut's worth, no more, no less?—one factOut of the drift of facts, whereby you learnWhat some one 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 wifeThought 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 youshould,Because one day there 's much use,—when this factBrings you the Judge upon both gouty kneesBefore the supernatural; proves that SludgeKnows, as you say, a thing he "could not" know:Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face,The way the wind drives?

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 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 some one 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!"—

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 youshould,

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 hereAnd gets his bread,—knowing no better way:He says, the fellow who informed of himAnd 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 worldRoll round his three-legged stool, and news run inThe 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 thingOf 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 dinedAnd on what dish, where walked to keep his healthAnd to what street. His trade was, throwing thusHis sense out, like an ant-eater's long tongue,Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible,And when 't was crusted o'er with creatures—slick,Their juice enriched his palate. "Could not Sludge!"

"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,

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

His sense out, like an ant-eater's long tongue,

Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible,

And when 't was 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 depthI' 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,All to-day'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 beastYou coax the strange electric sparks from out,By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog,Nor lion, nor lamb: 't is 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,'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 can't say, not being there to watch:He was tried, was tempted by your easiness,—He did not take in me!"

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,

All to-day'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

You coax the strange electric sparks from out,

By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog,

Nor lion, nor lamb: 't is 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,

'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 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? 'T is 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 themOnly 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 manlinessTo 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 foolWhen, to an awe-struck wide-eyed open-mouthedCircle of sages, Sludge would introduceMilton composing baby-rhymes, and LockeReasoning in gibberish, Homer writing GreekIn naughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalmsTo crotchet and quaver? I 've made a spirit squeakIn sham voice for a minute, then outbrokeBold 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?For being treated as a showman's ape,Encouraged to be wicked and make sport,Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any moodSo 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 climbTo cure your chimney, bid a "medium" lieTo sweep you truth down! Curse your women too,Your insolent wives and daughters, that fire upOr faint away if a male hand squeeze theirs,Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with SludgeAs only a "medium," only the kind of thingThey must humor, fondle ... oh, to misconceiveWere 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 worldAll our conventions are reversed,—perhapsMade 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 groupsOf 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? 'Twas their choice;They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed upAnd lost, as some one's sure to do in games;They fancied I was made to lose,—smoked glassUseful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes:And had I proved a red-hot iron plateThey 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!They 've had their peep into the spirit-world,And all this world may know it! They 've fed fatTheir self-conceit which else had starved: what chanceSave this, of cackling o'er a golden eggAnd 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 buyThe actor's talent, do you dare proposeFor 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 throughThat 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 had n'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 streakedLike tom-fool with your ochre and carmine,Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewedTo metamorphose somebody,—yes, I've earnedMy wages, swallowed down my bread of shame,And shake the crumbs off—where but in your face?

Thank you for Sludge!

I 'm to be grateful to such patrons, eh,

When what you hear 's my best word? 'T is 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,

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

Reasoning in gibberish, Homer writing Greek

In naughts 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?

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

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 humor, 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

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!"

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!

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

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 had n'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,

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 myphenomenaI laid the atheist sprawling on his back,Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg!In fact, it 's just the proper way to balkThese troublesome fellows—liars, one and all,Are not these skeptics? 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,Breeding belief anew 'neath ribs of death,Browbeating now the unabashed before,Ridding us of their whole life's gathered strawsBy a live coal from the altar! Why, of old,Great men spent years and years in writing booksTo 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 supposeHe let escape some spice of knavery,—well,In wisely being blind to it! Don't you praiseNelson for setting spy-glass to blind eyeAnd saying ... what was it—that he could not seeThe signal he was bothered with? Ay, indeed!

As for religion—why, I served it, sir!

I 'll stick to that! With myphenomena

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,

Are not these skeptics? 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,

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,

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!

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