Chapter 55

I 'll go beyond: there 's a real love of a lie,Liars find ready-made for lies they make,As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum.At best, 't is never pure and full belief;Those furthest in the quagmire,—don't supposeThey strayed there with no warning, got no chanceOf a filth-speck in their face, which they clenched teeth,Bent brow against! Be sure they had their doubts,And fears, and fairest challenges to tryThe floor o' the seeming solid sand! But no!Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised,All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved,And Sludge called "pet:" 't was easier marching onTo the promised land; join those who, Thursday next,Meant to meet Shakespeare; better follow Sludge—Prudent, oh sure!—on the alert, how else?But making for the mid-bog, all the same!To hear your outcries, one would think I caughtMiss Stokes by the scruff o' the neck, and pitched her flat,Foolish-face-foremost! Hear these simpletons,That 's all I beg, before my work 's begun,Before I 've touched them with my finger-tip!Thus they await me (do but listen, now!It 's reasoning, this is,—I can't imitateThe baby voice, though),—"In so many talesMust be some truth, truth though a pin-point big,Yet, some: a single man 's deceived, perhaps—Hardly, a thousand: to suppose one cheatCan gull all these, were more miraculous farThan aught we should confess a miracle,"—And so on. Then the Judge sums up—(it 's rare)Bids you respect the authorities that leapTo the judgment-seat at once,—why don't you noteThe limpid nature, the unblemished life,The spotless honor, indisputable senseOf the first upstart with his story? What—Outrage a boy on whom you ne'er till nowSet eyes, because he finds raps trouble him?Fools, these are: ay, and how of their oppositesWho never did, at bottom of their hearts,Believe for a moment?—Men emasculate,Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,With superstition safely,—cold of blood,Who saw what made for them i' the mystery,Took their occasion, and supported Sludge—As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd!—But promisers of fair play, encouragersO' the claimant; who in candor needs must hoistSludge up on Mars' Hill, get speech out of SludgeTo carry off, criticise, and cant about!Didn't Athens treat Saint Paul so?—-at any rate,It's "a new thing" philosophy fumbles at.Then there 's the other picker-out of pearlFrom dungheaps,—ay, your literary man,Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with SludgeDaintily and discreetly,—shakes a dustO' the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how,The narrative or the novel,—half-believes,All for the book's sake, and the public's stare,And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world!Look at him! Try to be too bold, too grossFor the master! Not you! He's the man for muck;Shovel it forth, full-splash, he'll smooth your brownInto artistic richness, never fear!Find him the crude stuff; when you recognizeYour lie again, you'll doff your hat to it,Dressed out for company! "For company,"I say, since there 's the relish of success:Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth,Save the soft silent smirking gentlemanWho ushered in the stranger: you must sigh"How melancholy, he, the only one,Fails to perceive the bearing of the truthHimself gave birth to!"—There 's the triumph's smack!That man would choose to see the whole world rollI' the slime o' the slough, so he might touch the tipOf his brush with what I call the best of browns—Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the powerOf the outworn umber and bistre!Yet I thinkThere 's a more hateful form of foolery—The social sage's, Solomon of saloonsAnd philosophic diner-out, the fribbleWho wants a doctrine for a chopping-blockTo try the edge of his faculty upon,Prove how much common sense he 'll hack and hewI' the critical moment 'twixt the soup and fish!These were my patrons: these, and the like of themWho, rising in my soul now, sicken it,—These I have injured! Gratitude to these?The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostituteTo the greenhorn and the bully—friends of hers,From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club,To the snuffbox-decorator, honest man,Who just was at his wits' end where to findSo genial a Pasiphae! All and eachPay, compliment, protect from the police:And how she hates them for their pains, like me!So much for my remorse at thanklessnessToward a deserving public!But, for God?Ay, that 's a question! Well, sir, since you press—(How you do tease the whole thing out of me!I don't mean you, you know, when I say "them:"Hate you, indeed! But that Miss Stokes, that Judge!Enough, enough—with sugar: thank you, sir!)Now for it, then! Will you believe me, though?You 've heard what I confess; I don't unsayA single word: I cheated when I could,Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work,Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink,Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match,And all the rest; believe that: believe this,By the same token, though it seem to setThe crooked straight again, unsay the said,Stick up what I 've knocked down; I can't help thatIt 's truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day.This trade of mine—I don't know, can't be sureBut there was something in it, tricks and all!Really, I want to light up my own mind.They were tricks,—true, but what I mean to addIs also true. First,—don't it strike you, sir?Go back to the beginning,—the first factWe 're taught is, there 's a world beside this world,With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry;That much within that world once sojourned here,That all upon this world will visit there,And therefore that we, bodily here below,Must have exactly such an interestIn learning what may be the ways o' the worldAbove us, as the disembodied folkHave (by all analogic likelihood)In watching how things go in the old homeWith us, their sons, successors, and whatnot.Oh, yes, with added powers probably,Fit for the novel state,—old loves grown pure,Old interests understood aright,—they watch!Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help,Proportionate to advancement: they 're ahead,That 's all—do what we do, but noblier done—Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf,(To use a figure.)Concede that, and I askNext what may be the mode of intercourseBetween us men here, and those once-men there?First comes the Bible's speech; then, historyWith the supernatural element,—you know—All that we sucked in with our mothers' milk,Grew up with, got inside of us at last,Till it 's found bone of bone and flesh of flesh.See now, we start with the miraculous,And know it used, to be, at all events:What 's the first step we take, and can't but take,In arguing from the known to the obscure?Why this: "What was before, may be to-day.Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul,—of courseMy brother's spirit may appear to me."Go tell your teacher that! What 's his reply?What brings a shade of doubt for the first timeO'er his brow late so luminous with faith?"Such things have been," says he, "and there 's no doubtSuch things may be: but I advise mistrustOf eyes, ears, stomach, and, more than all, your brain,Unless it be of your great-grandmother,Whenever they propose a ghost to you!"The end is, there 's a composition struck;'T is settled, we 've some way of intercourseJust as in Saul's time; only, different:How, when and where, precisely,—find it out!I want to know, then, what 's so naturalAs that a person born into this worldAnd seized on by such teaching, should beginWith firm expectancy and a frank look-outFor his own allotment, his especial shareI' the secret,—his particular ghost, in fine?I mean, a person born to look that way,Since natures differ: take the painter-sort,One man lives fifty years in ignoranceWhether grass be green or red,—"No kind of eyeFor color," say you; while another picksAnd puts away even pebbles, when a child,Because of bluish spots and pinky veins—"Give him forthwith a paint-box!" Just the sameWas I born ... "medium," you won't let me say,—Well, seer of the supernaturalEverywhen, everyhow, and everywhere,—Will that do?I and all such boys of courseStarted with the same stock of Bible-truth;Only,—-what in the rest you style their sense,Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative,This, betimes, taught them the old world had one lawAnd ours another: "New world, new laws," cried they:"None but old laws, seen everywhere at work,"Cried I, and by their help explained my lifeThe Jews' way, still a working way to me.Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights,Or Santa Claus slid down on New Year's EveAnd stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed,Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slateO' the sum that came to grief the day before.This could not last long: soon enough I foundWho had worked wonders thus, and to what end:But did I find all easy, like my mates?Henceforth no supernatural any more?Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls?"A cue," you answer. "Yes, a cue," said I;"But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue?What unseen agency, outside the world,Prompted its puppets to do this and that,Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind,These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?"Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since.Just so I reason, in sober earnest still,About the greater godsends, what you callThe serious gains and losses of my life.What do I know or care about your worldWhich either is or seems to be? This snapO' my fingers, sir! My care is for myself;Myself am whole and sole realityInside a raree-show and a market-mobGathered about it: that 's the use of things.'T is easy saying they serve vast purposes,Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false,Each thing may have two uses. What 's a star?A world, or a world's sun: doesn't it serveAs taper also, timepiece, weather-glass,And almanac? Are stars not set for signsWhen we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees?The Bible says so.Well, I add one useTo all the acknowledged uses, and declareIf I spy Charles's Wain at twelve to-night,It warns me, "Go, nor lose another day,And have your hair cut, Sludge!" You laugh: and why?Were such a sign too hard for God to give?No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace:Thank you, sir! So you think, so does not Sludge!When you and good men gape at Providence,Go into history and bid us markNot merely powder-plots prevented, crownsKept on kings' heads by miracle enough,But private mercies—oh, you 've told me, sir,Of such interpositions! How yourselfOnce, missing on a memorable dayYour handkerchief—just setting out, you know,—You must return to fetch it, lost the train,And saved your precious self from what befellThe thirty-three whom Providence forgot.You tell, and ask me what I think of this?Well, sir, I think then, since you needs must know,What matter had you and Boston city to bootSailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? MuchTo you, no doubt: for me—undoubtedlyThe cutting of my hair concerns me more,Because, however sad the truth may seem,Sludge is of all-importance to himself.You set apart that day in every yearFor special thanksgiving, were a heathen else:Well, I who cannot boast the like escape,Suppose I said, "I don't thank ProvidenceFor my part, owing it no gratitude"?"Nay, but you owe as much,"—you 'd tutor me,"You, every man alive, for blessings gainedIn every hour o' the day, could you but know!I saw my crowning mercy: all have such,Could they but see!" Well, sir, why don't they see?"Because they won't look,—or perhaps, they can't."Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and doLook, microscopically as is right,Into each hour with its infinitudeOf influences at work to profit Sludge?For that 's the case: I 've sharpened up my sightTo spy a providence in the fire's going out,The kettle's boiling, the dime's sticking fastDespite the hole i' the pocket. Call such factsFancies, too petty a work for Providence,And those same thanks which you exact from meProve too prodigious payment: thanks for what,If nothing guards and guides us little men?No, no, sir! You must put away your pride,Resolve to let Sludge into partnership!I live by signs and omens: looked at the roofWhere the pigeons settle—"If the further bird,The white, takes wing first, I 'll confess when thrashed;Not, if the blue does,"—so I said to myselfLast week, lest you should take me by surprise:Off flapped the white,—and I 'm confessing, sir!Perhaps 't is Providence's whim and wayWith only me, i' the world: how can you tell?"Because unlikely!" Was it likelier, now,That this our one out of all worlds beside,The what-d'-you-call-'em millions, should be justPrecisely chosen to make Adam for,And the rest o' the tale? Yet the tale 's true, you know:Such undeserving clod was graced so once;Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge?Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags?All you can bring against my privilegeIs, that another way was taken with you,—Which I don't question. It 's pure grace, my luck:I 'm broken to the way of nods and winks,And need no formal summoning. You 've a help;Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands,Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all 's one,He understands you want him, here he comes.Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, waitThe tongue o' the bell, nor stir before you catchReason's clear tingle, nature's clapper brisk,Or that traditional peal was wont to cheerYour mother's face turned heavenward: short of theseThere 's no authentic intimation, eh?Well, when you hear, you 'll answer them, start upAnd stride into the presence, top of toe,And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprangAt noise o' the knuckle on the partition-wall!I think myself the more religious man.Religion 's all or nothing; it 's no mere smileO' contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir—No quality o' the finelier-tempered clayLike its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuffO' the very stuff, life of life, and self of self.I tell you, men won't notice; when they do,They 'll understand. I notice nothing else:I 'm eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape,Nothing eludes me, everything 's a hint,Handle and help. It 's all absurd, and yetThere 's something in it all, I know: how much?No answer! What does that prove? Man 's still man,Still meant for a poor blundering piece of workWhen all 's done; but, if somewhat 's done, like this,Or not done, is the case the same? SupposeI blunder in my guess at the true senseO' the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten,—What if the tenth guess happen to be right?If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartzYield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all,Pass o'er the failure, pounce on the success.To give you a notion, now—(let who wins, laugh!)When first I see a man, what do I first?Why, count the letters which make up his name,And as their number chances, even or odd,Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course:Hiram H. Horsefall is your honored name,And have n't I found a patron, sir, in you?"Shall I cheat this stranger?" I take apple-pips,Stick one in eithercanthusof my eye,And if the left drops first—(your left, sir, stuck)I 'm warned, I let the trick alone this time.You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash,You judge of character by other rules:Don't your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what ruleHave you judged Sludge by hitherto?Oh, be sure,You, everybody blunders, just as I,In simpler things than these by far! For see:I knew two farmers,—one, a wiseacreWho studied seasons, rummaged almanacs,Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost,And then declared, for outcome of his pains,Next summer must be dampish: 't was a drought.His neighbor prophesied such drought would fall,Saved hay and corn, made cent. per cent. thereby,And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore?Because one brindled heifer, late in March,Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehowHe got into his head that drought was meant!I don't expect all men can do as much:Such kissing goes by favor. You must takeA certain turn of mind for this,—a twistI' the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive,Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater,Letting all nature's loosely-guarded motesSettle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourselfThe one i' the world, the one for whom the worldWas made, expect it, tickling at your mouth!Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies,Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive,Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.I can't pretend to mind your smiling, sir!Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way,Close converse, frank exchange of offices,Strict sympathy of the immeasurably greatWith the infinitely small, betokened hereBy a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks,—How does it suit the dread traditional textO' the "Great and Terrible Name"? Shall the Heaven of HeavensStoop to such child's play?Please, sir, go with meA moment, and I 'll try to answer you.The "Magnum et terribile" (is that right?)Well, folk began with this in the early day;And all the acts they recognized in proofWere thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealtIndisputably on men whose death they caused,There, and there only, folk saw ProvidenceAt work,—and seeing it, 't was right enoughAll heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain,And knees knock hard together at the breathO' the Name's first letter; why, the Jews, I 'm told,Won't write it down, no, to this very hour,Nor speak aloud: you know best if 't be so.Each, ague-fit of fear at end, they crept(Because somehow people once born must live)Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o' the Name,Into a corner, the dark rest of the world,And safe space where as yet no fear had reached;'T was there they looked about them, breathed again,And felt indeed at home, as we might say.The current o' common things, the daily life,This had their due contempt; no Name pursuedMan from the mountain-top where fires abide,To his particular mouse-hole at its footWhere he ate, drank, digested, lived in short:Such was man's vulgar business, far too smallTo be worth thunder: "small," folk kept on, "small,"With much complacency in those great days!A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass—What was so despicable as mere grass,Except perhaps the life o' the worm or flyWhich fed there? These were "small" and men were great.Well, sir, the old way 's altered somewhat since,And the world wears another aspect now:Somebody turns our spyglass round, or elsePuts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow, big:We find great things are made of little things,And little things go lessening till at lastComes God behind them. Talk of mountains now?We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mitesThat throng the mould, and God that makes the mites.The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst,The simplest of creations, just a sacThat 's mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet livesAnd feels, and could do neither, we conclude,If simplified still further one degree:The small becomes the dreadful and immense!Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that!A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk,With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there 'sYour dollar's-worth of lightning! But the cyst—The life of the least of the little things?No, no!Preachers and teachers try another tack,Come near the truth this time: they put asideThunder and lightning. "That 's mistake," they cry;"Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport,But do appreciable good, like tides,Changes o' the wind, and other natural facts—'Good' meaning good to man, his body or soul.Mediate, immediate, all things ministerTo man,—that 's settled: be our future text'We are His children!'" So, they now harangueAbout the intention, the contrivance, allThat keeps up an incessant play of love,—See the Bridgewater book.Amen to it!Well, sir, I put this question: I 'm a child?I lose no time, but take you at your word:How shall I act a child's part properly?Your sainted mother, sir,—used you to liveWith such a thought as this a-worrying you?"She has it in her power to throttle me,Or stab or poison: she may turn me out,Or lock me in,—nor stop at this to-day,But cut me off to-morrow from the estateI look for"—(long may you enjoy; it, sir!)"In brief, she may unchild the child I am.You never had such crotchets? Nor have I!Who, frank confessing childship from the first,Cannot both fear and take my ease at once,So, don't fear,—know what might be, well enough,But know too, child-like, that it will not be,At least in my case, mine, the son and heirO' the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style.But do you fancy I stop short at this?Wonder if suit and service, son and heirNeeds must expect, I dare pretend to find?If, looking for signs proper to such an one,I straight perceive them irresistible?Concede that homage is a son's plain right,And, never mind the nods and raps and winks,'T is the pure obvious supernaturalSteps forward, does its duty: why, of course!I have presentiments; my dreams come true:I fancy a friend stands whistling all in whiteBlithe as a boblink, and he's dead I learn.I take dislike to a dog my favorite long,And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps.I guess that stranger will turn up to-dayI have not seen these three years; there 's his knock.I wager "sixty peaches on that tree!"—That I pick up a dollar in my walk,That your wife's brother's cousin's name was George—And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this?You 'd fain distinguish between gift and gift,Washington's oracle and Sludge's itchO' the elbow when at whist he ought to trump?With Sludge it's too absurd?Fine, draw the lineSomewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!Bless us, I 'm turning poet! It 's time to end.How you have drawn me out, sir! All I askIs—am I heir or not heir? If I 'm he,Then, sir, remember, that same personage(To judge by what we read i' the newspaper)Requires, beside one nobleman in goldTo carry up and down his coronet,Another servant, probably a duke,To hold eggnog in readiness: why wantAttendance, sir, when helps in his father's houseAbound, I'd like to know?Enough of talk!My fault is that I tell too plain a truth.Why, which of those-who say they disbelieve,Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream,Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his factHe can't explain, (he'll tell you smilingly,)Which he 's too much of a philosopherTo count as supernatural, indeed,So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it:Bidding you still be on your guard, you know,Because one fact don't make a system stand,Nor prove this an occasional escapeOf spirit beneath the matter: that's the way!Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece,The fact in California, the fine goldThat underlay the gravel—hoarded these,But never made a system stand, nor dug!So wise men hold out in each hollowed palmA handful of experience, sparkling-factThey can't explain; and since their rest of lifeIs all explainable, what proof in this?Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold,And fling away the dirty rest of life,And add this grain to the grain each fool has foundO' the million other such philosophers,—Till I see gold, all gold and only gold,Truth questionless though unexplainable,And the miraculous proved the commonplace!The other fools believed in mud, no doubt—Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange?Are all men born to play Bach's fiddle-fugues,"Time" with the foil in carte, jump their own height,Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five,Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nailsWhile swimming, in five minutes row a mile,Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm,Do sums of fifty figures in their head,And so on, by the scores of instances?The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts,His fellows strive and fail to see, may rankWith these, and share the advantage.Ay, but shareThe drawback! Think it over by yourself;I have not heart, sir, and the fire 's gone gray.Defect somewhere compensates for success,Every one knows that. Oh, we 're equals, sir!The big-legged fellow has a little armAnd a less brain, though big legs win the race:Do you suppose I 'scape the common lot?Say,Iwas born with flesh so sensitive,Soul so alert, that, practice helping both,I guess what 's going on outside the veil,Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-timeIn the islands where his kind are, so must fallTo capering by himself some shiny night,As if your back-yard were a plot of spice—Thus am I 'ware o' the spirit-world: while you,Blind as a beetle that way,—for amends,Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours,Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,Never brag, never bluster, never blush,—In short, you 've pluck, when I 'm a coward—there!I know it, I can't help it,—folly or no.I 'm paralyzed, my hand 's no more a hand,Nor my head a head, in danger: you can smileAnd change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift 's not mine.Would you swap for mine? No! but you 'd add my giftTo yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so muchBeing dressed gayly, making strangers stare,Eating nice things; when I 'd amuse myself,I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain,I 'm—now the President, now Jenny Lind,Now Emerson, now the Benicia Boy—With all the civilized world a-wonderingAnd worshipping. I know it 's folly and worse;I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,But I can't cure myself,—despond, despair,And then, hey, presto, there 's a turn o' the wheel,Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends;Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred thingsYou all are blind to,—I 've my taste of truth,Likewise my touch of falsehood,—vice no doubt,But you 've your vices also: I'm content.What, sir? You won't shake hands? "Because I cheat!""You 've found me out in cheating!" That 's enoughTo make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat,Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act,Are you, or rather, am I sure o' the fact?(There 's verse again, but I 'm inspired somehow.)Well then I 'm not sure! I may be, perhaps,Free as a babe from cheating: how it began,My gift,—no matter; what 't is got to beIn the end now, that 's the question; answer that!Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine,Leading me whither, I had died of fright:So, I was made believe I led myself.If I should lay a six-inch plank from roofTo roof, you would not cross the street, one step,Even at your mother's summons: but, being shrewd,If I paste paper on each side the plankAnd swear 't is solid pavement, why, you 'll crossHumming a tune the while, in ignoranceBeacon Street stretches a hundred feet below:I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone.Some impulse made me set a thing o' the moveWhich, started once, ran really by itself;Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite,It takes the wind and floats of its own force.Don't let truth's lump rot stagnant for the lackOf a timely helpful lie to leaven it!Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen,She 'll lay a real one, laudably deceived,Daily for weeks to come. I 've told my lie,And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine;All was not cheating, sir, I 'm positive!I don't know if I move your hand sometimesWhen the spontaneous writing spreads so far,If my knee lifts the table all that height,Why the inkstand don't fall off the desk a-tilt,Why the accordion plays a prettier waltzThan I can pick out on the pianoforte,Why I speak so much more than I intend,Describe so many things I never saw.I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believeNothing at all,—that everybody can,Will, and does cheat: but in another senseI'm ready to believe my very self—That every cheat 's inspired, and every lieQuick with a germ of truth.You ask perhapsWhy I should condescend to trick at allIf I know a way without it? This is why!There 's a strange secret sweet self-sacrificeIn any desecration of one's soulTo a worthy end,—is n't it Herodotus(I wish I could read Latin!) who describesThe single gift o' the land's virginity,Demanded in those old Egyptian rites,(I 've but a hazy notion—help me, sir!)For one purpose in the world, one day in a life,One hour in a day—thereafter, purity,And a veil thrown o'er the past forevermore!Well now, they understood a many thingsDown by Nile city, or wherever it was!I 've always vowed, after the minute's lie,And the end's gain,—truth should be mine henceforth.This goes to the root o' the matter, sir,—this plainPlump fact: accept it and unlock with itThe wards of many a puzzle!Or, finally,Why should I set so fine a gloss on things?What need I care? I cheat in self-defence,And there 's my answer to a world of cheats!Cheat? To be sure, sir! What's the world worth else?Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars?Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing upAnd polishing over? Your so-styled great men,Do they accept one truth as truth is found,Or try their skill at tinkering? What 's your world?Here are you born, who are, I 'll say at once,Of the luckiest kind, whether in head and heart,Body and soul, or all that helps them both.Well, now, look back: what faculty of yoursCame to its full, had ample justice doneBy growing when rain fell, tiding its time,Solidifying growth when earth was dead,Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due?Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off,Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout;One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end,All you boast is, "I had proved a topping treeIn other climes,"—yet this was the right climeHad you foreknown the seasons. Young, you 've forceWasted like well-streams: old,—oh, then indeed,Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipesThrough which you 'd play off wondrous water-work;Only, no water 's left to feed their play.Young,—you 've a hope, an aim, a love; it 's tossedAnd crossed and lost: you struggle on, some sparkShut in your heart against the puffs around,Through cold and pain; these in due time subside,Now then for age's triumph, the hoarded lightYou mean to loose on the altered face of things,—Up with it on the tripod! It 's extinct.Spend your life's remnant asking, which was best,Light smothered up that never peeped forth, once,Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine?Well, accept this too,—seek the fruit of itNot in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth,But knowledge, useful for a second chance,Another life,—you 've lost this world—you 've gainedIts knowledge for the next.—What knowledge, sir,Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubtWhether 't were better have made you man or brute,If aught be true, if good and evil clash.No foal, no fair, no inside, no outside,There 's your world!

I 'll go beyond: there 's a real love of a lie,

Liars find ready-made for lies they make,

As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum.

At best, 't is never pure and full belief;

Those furthest in the quagmire,—don't suppose

They strayed there with no warning, got no chance

Of a filth-speck in their face, which they clenched teeth,

Bent brow against! Be sure they had their doubts,

And fears, and fairest challenges to try

The floor o' the seeming solid sand! But no!

Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised,

All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved,

And Sludge called "pet:" 't was easier marching on

To the promised land; join those who, Thursday next,

Meant to meet Shakespeare; better follow Sludge—

Prudent, oh sure!—on the alert, how else?

But making for the mid-bog, all the same!

To hear your outcries, one would think I caught

Miss Stokes by the scruff o' the neck, and pitched her flat,

Foolish-face-foremost! Hear these simpletons,

That 's all I beg, before my work 's begun,

Before I 've touched them with my finger-tip!

Thus they await me (do but listen, now!

It 's reasoning, this is,—I can't imitate

The baby voice, though),—"In so many tales

Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big,

Yet, some: a single man 's deceived, perhaps—

Hardly, a thousand: to suppose one cheat

Can gull all these, were more miraculous far

Than aught we should confess a miracle,"—

And so on. Then the Judge sums up—(it 's rare)

Bids you respect the authorities that leap

To the judgment-seat at once,—why don't you note

The limpid nature, the unblemished life,

The spotless honor, indisputable sense

Of the first upstart with his story? What—

Outrage a boy on whom you ne'er till now

Set eyes, because he finds raps trouble him?

Fools, these are: ay, and how of their oppositesWho never did, at bottom of their hearts,Believe for a moment?—Men emasculate,Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,With superstition safely,—cold of blood,Who saw what made for them i' the mystery,Took their occasion, and supported Sludge—As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd!—But promisers of fair play, encouragersO' the claimant; who in candor needs must hoistSludge up on Mars' Hill, get speech out of SludgeTo carry off, criticise, and cant about!Didn't Athens treat Saint Paul so?—-at any rate,It's "a new thing" philosophy fumbles at.Then there 's the other picker-out of pearlFrom dungheaps,—ay, your literary man,Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with SludgeDaintily and discreetly,—shakes a dustO' the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how,The narrative or the novel,—half-believes,All for the book's sake, and the public's stare,And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world!Look at him! Try to be too bold, too grossFor the master! Not you! He's the man for muck;Shovel it forth, full-splash, he'll smooth your brownInto artistic richness, never fear!Find him the crude stuff; when you recognizeYour lie again, you'll doff your hat to it,Dressed out for company! "For company,"I say, since there 's the relish of success:Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth,Save the soft silent smirking gentlemanWho ushered in the stranger: you must sigh"How melancholy, he, the only one,Fails to perceive the bearing of the truthHimself gave birth to!"—There 's the triumph's smack!That man would choose to see the whole world rollI' the slime o' the slough, so he might touch the tipOf his brush with what I call the best of browns—Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the powerOf the outworn umber and bistre!

Fools, these are: ay, and how of their opposites

Who never did, at bottom of their hearts,

Believe for a moment?—Men emasculate,

Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,

With superstition safely,—cold of blood,

Who saw what made for them i' the mystery,

Took their occasion, and supported Sludge

—As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd!

—But promisers of fair play, encouragers

O' the claimant; who in candor needs must hoist

Sludge up on Mars' Hill, get speech out of Sludge

To carry off, criticise, and cant about!

Didn't Athens treat Saint Paul so?—-at any rate,

It's "a new thing" philosophy fumbles at.

Then there 's the other picker-out of pearl

From dungheaps,—ay, your literary man,

Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge

Daintily and discreetly,—shakes a dust

O' the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how,

The narrative or the novel,—half-believes,

All for the book's sake, and the public's stare,

And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world!

Look at him! Try to be too bold, too gross

For the master! Not you! He's the man for muck;

Shovel it forth, full-splash, he'll smooth your brown

Into artistic richness, never fear!

Find him the crude stuff; when you recognize

Your lie again, you'll doff your hat to it,

Dressed out for company! "For company,"

I say, since there 's the relish of success:

Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth,

Save the soft silent smirking gentleman

Who ushered in the stranger: you must sigh

"How melancholy, he, the only one,

Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth

Himself gave birth to!"—There 's the triumph's smack!

That man would choose to see the whole world roll

I' the slime o' the slough, so he might touch the tip

Of his brush with what I call the best of browns—

Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the power

Of the outworn umber and bistre!

Yet I thinkThere 's a more hateful form of foolery—The social sage's, Solomon of saloonsAnd philosophic diner-out, the fribbleWho wants a doctrine for a chopping-blockTo try the edge of his faculty upon,Prove how much common sense he 'll hack and hewI' the critical moment 'twixt the soup and fish!These were my patrons: these, and the like of themWho, rising in my soul now, sicken it,—These I have injured! Gratitude to these?The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostituteTo the greenhorn and the bully—friends of hers,From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club,To the snuffbox-decorator, honest man,Who just was at his wits' end where to findSo genial a Pasiphae! All and eachPay, compliment, protect from the police:And how she hates them for their pains, like me!So much for my remorse at thanklessnessToward a deserving public!

Yet I think

There 's a more hateful form of foolery—

The social sage's, Solomon of saloons

And philosophic diner-out, the fribble

Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block

To try the edge of his faculty upon,

Prove how much common sense he 'll hack and hew

I' the critical moment 'twixt the soup and fish!

These were my patrons: these, and the like of them

Who, rising in my soul now, sicken it,—

These I have injured! Gratitude to these?

The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute

To the greenhorn and the bully—friends of hers,

From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club,

To the snuffbox-decorator, honest man,

Who just was at his wits' end where to find

So genial a Pasiphae! All and each

Pay, compliment, protect from the police:

And how she hates them for their pains, like me!

So much for my remorse at thanklessness

Toward a deserving public!

But, for God?Ay, that 's a question! Well, sir, since you press—(How you do tease the whole thing out of me!I don't mean you, you know, when I say "them:"Hate you, indeed! But that Miss Stokes, that Judge!Enough, enough—with sugar: thank you, sir!)Now for it, then! Will you believe me, though?You 've heard what I confess; I don't unsayA single word: I cheated when I could,Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work,Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink,Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match,And all the rest; believe that: believe this,By the same token, though it seem to setThe crooked straight again, unsay the said,Stick up what I 've knocked down; I can't help thatIt 's truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day.This trade of mine—I don't know, can't be sureBut there was something in it, tricks and all!Really, I want to light up my own mind.They were tricks,—true, but what I mean to addIs also true. First,—don't it strike you, sir?Go back to the beginning,—the first factWe 're taught is, there 's a world beside this world,With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry;That much within that world once sojourned here,That all upon this world will visit there,And therefore that we, bodily here below,Must have exactly such an interestIn learning what may be the ways o' the worldAbove us, as the disembodied folkHave (by all analogic likelihood)In watching how things go in the old homeWith us, their sons, successors, and whatnot.Oh, yes, with added powers probably,Fit for the novel state,—old loves grown pure,Old interests understood aright,—they watch!Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help,Proportionate to advancement: they 're ahead,That 's all—do what we do, but noblier done—Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf,(To use a figure.)

But, for God?

Ay, that 's a question! Well, sir, since you press—

(How you do tease the whole thing out of me!

I don't mean you, you know, when I say "them:"

Hate you, indeed! But that Miss Stokes, that Judge!

Enough, enough—with sugar: thank you, sir!)

Now for it, then! Will you believe me, though?

You 've heard what I confess; I don't unsay

A single word: I cheated when I could,

Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work,

Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink,

Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match,

And all the rest; believe that: believe this,

By the same token, though it seem to set

The crooked straight again, unsay the said,

Stick up what I 've knocked down; I can't help that

It 's truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day.

This trade of mine—I don't know, can't be sure

But there was something in it, tricks and all!

Really, I want to light up my own mind.

They were tricks,—true, but what I mean to add

Is also true. First,—don't it strike you, sir?

Go back to the beginning,—the first fact

We 're taught is, there 's a world beside this world,

With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry;

That much within that world once sojourned here,

That all upon this world will visit there,

And therefore that we, bodily here below,

Must have exactly such an interest

In learning what may be the ways o' the world

Above us, as the disembodied folk

Have (by all analogic likelihood)

In watching how things go in the old home

With us, their sons, successors, and whatnot.

Oh, yes, with added powers probably,

Fit for the novel state,—old loves grown pure,

Old interests understood aright,—they watch!

Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help,

Proportionate to advancement: they 're ahead,

That 's all—do what we do, but noblier done—

Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf,

(To use a figure.)

Concede that, and I askNext what may be the mode of intercourseBetween us men here, and those once-men there?First comes the Bible's speech; then, historyWith the supernatural element,—you know—All that we sucked in with our mothers' milk,Grew up with, got inside of us at last,Till it 's found bone of bone and flesh of flesh.See now, we start with the miraculous,And know it used, to be, at all events:What 's the first step we take, and can't but take,In arguing from the known to the obscure?Why this: "What was before, may be to-day.Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul,—of courseMy brother's spirit may appear to me."Go tell your teacher that! What 's his reply?What brings a shade of doubt for the first timeO'er his brow late so luminous with faith?"Such things have been," says he, "and there 's no doubtSuch things may be: but I advise mistrustOf eyes, ears, stomach, and, more than all, your brain,Unless it be of your great-grandmother,Whenever they propose a ghost to you!"The end is, there 's a composition struck;'T is settled, we 've some way of intercourseJust as in Saul's time; only, different:How, when and where, precisely,—find it out!I want to know, then, what 's so naturalAs that a person born into this worldAnd seized on by such teaching, should beginWith firm expectancy and a frank look-outFor his own allotment, his especial shareI' the secret,—his particular ghost, in fine?I mean, a person born to look that way,Since natures differ: take the painter-sort,One man lives fifty years in ignoranceWhether grass be green or red,—"No kind of eyeFor color," say you; while another picksAnd puts away even pebbles, when a child,Because of bluish spots and pinky veins—"Give him forthwith a paint-box!" Just the sameWas I born ... "medium," you won't let me say,—Well, seer of the supernaturalEverywhen, everyhow, and everywhere,—Will that do?

Concede that, and I ask

Next what may be the mode of intercourse

Between us men here, and those once-men there?

First comes the Bible's speech; then, history

With the supernatural element,—you know—

All that we sucked in with our mothers' milk,

Grew up with, got inside of us at last,

Till it 's found bone of bone and flesh of flesh.

See now, we start with the miraculous,

And know it used, to be, at all events:

What 's the first step we take, and can't but take,

In arguing from the known to the obscure?

Why this: "What was before, may be to-day.

Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul,—of course

My brother's spirit may appear to me."

Go tell your teacher that! What 's his reply?

What brings a shade of doubt for the first time

O'er his brow late so luminous with faith?

"Such things have been," says he, "and there 's no doubt

Such things may be: but I advise mistrust

Of eyes, ears, stomach, and, more than all, your brain,

Unless it be of your great-grandmother,

Whenever they propose a ghost to you!"

The end is, there 's a composition struck;

'T is settled, we 've some way of intercourse

Just as in Saul's time; only, different:

How, when and where, precisely,—find it out!

I want to know, then, what 's so natural

As that a person born into this world

And seized on by such teaching, should begin

With firm expectancy and a frank look-out

For his own allotment, his especial share

I' the secret,—his particular ghost, in fine?

I mean, a person born to look that way,

Since natures differ: take the painter-sort,

One man lives fifty years in ignorance

Whether grass be green or red,—"No kind of eye

For color," say you; while another picks

And puts away even pebbles, when a child,

Because of bluish spots and pinky veins—

"Give him forthwith a paint-box!" Just the same

Was I born ... "medium," you won't let me say,—

Well, seer of the supernatural

Everywhen, everyhow, and everywhere,—

Will that do?

I and all such boys of courseStarted with the same stock of Bible-truth;Only,—-what in the rest you style their sense,Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative,This, betimes, taught them the old world had one lawAnd ours another: "New world, new laws," cried they:"None but old laws, seen everywhere at work,"Cried I, and by their help explained my lifeThe Jews' way, still a working way to me.Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights,Or Santa Claus slid down on New Year's EveAnd stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed,Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slateO' the sum that came to grief the day before.

I and all such boys of course

Started with the same stock of Bible-truth;

Only,—-what in the rest you style their sense,

Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative,

This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law

And ours another: "New world, new laws," cried they:

"None but old laws, seen everywhere at work,"

Cried I, and by their help explained my life

The Jews' way, still a working way to me.

Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights,

Or Santa Claus slid down on New Year's Eve

And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed,

Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate

O' the sum that came to grief the day before.

This could not last long: soon enough I foundWho had worked wonders thus, and to what end:But did I find all easy, like my mates?Henceforth no supernatural any more?Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls?"A cue," you answer. "Yes, a cue," said I;"But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue?What unseen agency, outside the world,Prompted its puppets to do this and that,Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind,These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?"Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since.Just so I reason, in sober earnest still,About the greater godsends, what you callThe serious gains and losses of my life.What do I know or care about your worldWhich either is or seems to be? This snapO' my fingers, sir! My care is for myself;Myself am whole and sole realityInside a raree-show and a market-mobGathered about it: that 's the use of things.'T is easy saying they serve vast purposes,Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false,Each thing may have two uses. What 's a star?A world, or a world's sun: doesn't it serveAs taper also, timepiece, weather-glass,And almanac? Are stars not set for signsWhen we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees?The Bible says so.

This could not last long: soon enough I found

Who had worked wonders thus, and to what end:

But did I find all easy, like my mates?

Henceforth no supernatural any more?

Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls?

"A cue," you answer. "Yes, a cue," said I;

"But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue?

What unseen agency, outside the world,

Prompted its puppets to do this and that,

Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind,

These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?"

Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since.

Just so I reason, in sober earnest still,

About the greater godsends, what you call

The serious gains and losses of my life.

What do I know or care about your world

Which either is or seems to be? This snap

O' my fingers, sir! My care is for myself;

Myself am whole and sole reality

Inside a raree-show and a market-mob

Gathered about it: that 's the use of things.

'T is easy saying they serve vast purposes,

Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false,

Each thing may have two uses. What 's a star?

A world, or a world's sun: doesn't it serve

As taper also, timepiece, weather-glass,

And almanac? Are stars not set for signs

When we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees?

The Bible says so.

Well, I add one useTo all the acknowledged uses, and declareIf I spy Charles's Wain at twelve to-night,It warns me, "Go, nor lose another day,And have your hair cut, Sludge!" You laugh: and why?Were such a sign too hard for God to give?No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace:Thank you, sir! So you think, so does not Sludge!When you and good men gape at Providence,Go into history and bid us markNot merely powder-plots prevented, crownsKept on kings' heads by miracle enough,But private mercies—oh, you 've told me, sir,Of such interpositions! How yourselfOnce, missing on a memorable dayYour handkerchief—just setting out, you know,—You must return to fetch it, lost the train,And saved your precious self from what befellThe thirty-three whom Providence forgot.You tell, and ask me what I think of this?Well, sir, I think then, since you needs must know,What matter had you and Boston city to bootSailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? MuchTo you, no doubt: for me—undoubtedlyThe cutting of my hair concerns me more,Because, however sad the truth may seem,Sludge is of all-importance to himself.You set apart that day in every yearFor special thanksgiving, were a heathen else:Well, I who cannot boast the like escape,Suppose I said, "I don't thank ProvidenceFor my part, owing it no gratitude"?"Nay, but you owe as much,"—you 'd tutor me,"You, every man alive, for blessings gainedIn every hour o' the day, could you but know!I saw my crowning mercy: all have such,Could they but see!" Well, sir, why don't they see?"Because they won't look,—or perhaps, they can't."Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and doLook, microscopically as is right,Into each hour with its infinitudeOf influences at work to profit Sludge?For that 's the case: I 've sharpened up my sightTo spy a providence in the fire's going out,The kettle's boiling, the dime's sticking fastDespite the hole i' the pocket. Call such factsFancies, too petty a work for Providence,And those same thanks which you exact from meProve too prodigious payment: thanks for what,If nothing guards and guides us little men?No, no, sir! You must put away your pride,Resolve to let Sludge into partnership!I live by signs and omens: looked at the roofWhere the pigeons settle—"If the further bird,The white, takes wing first, I 'll confess when thrashed;Not, if the blue does,"—so I said to myselfLast week, lest you should take me by surprise:Off flapped the white,—and I 'm confessing, sir!Perhaps 't is Providence's whim and wayWith only me, i' the world: how can you tell?"Because unlikely!" Was it likelier, now,That this our one out of all worlds beside,The what-d'-you-call-'em millions, should be justPrecisely chosen to make Adam for,And the rest o' the tale? Yet the tale 's true, you know:Such undeserving clod was graced so once;Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge?Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags?All you can bring against my privilegeIs, that another way was taken with you,—Which I don't question. It 's pure grace, my luck:I 'm broken to the way of nods and winks,And need no formal summoning. You 've a help;Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands,Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all 's one,He understands you want him, here he comes.Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, waitThe tongue o' the bell, nor stir before you catchReason's clear tingle, nature's clapper brisk,Or that traditional peal was wont to cheerYour mother's face turned heavenward: short of theseThere 's no authentic intimation, eh?Well, when you hear, you 'll answer them, start upAnd stride into the presence, top of toe,And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprangAt noise o' the knuckle on the partition-wall!I think myself the more religious man.Religion 's all or nothing; it 's no mere smileO' contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir—No quality o' the finelier-tempered clayLike its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuffO' the very stuff, life of life, and self of self.I tell you, men won't notice; when they do,They 'll understand. I notice nothing else:I 'm eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape,Nothing eludes me, everything 's a hint,Handle and help. It 's all absurd, and yetThere 's something in it all, I know: how much?No answer! What does that prove? Man 's still man,Still meant for a poor blundering piece of workWhen all 's done; but, if somewhat 's done, like this,Or not done, is the case the same? SupposeI blunder in my guess at the true senseO' the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten,—What if the tenth guess happen to be right?If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartzYield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all,Pass o'er the failure, pounce on the success.To give you a notion, now—(let who wins, laugh!)When first I see a man, what do I first?Why, count the letters which make up his name,And as their number chances, even or odd,Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course:Hiram H. Horsefall is your honored name,And have n't I found a patron, sir, in you?"Shall I cheat this stranger?" I take apple-pips,Stick one in eithercanthusof my eye,And if the left drops first—(your left, sir, stuck)I 'm warned, I let the trick alone this time.You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash,You judge of character by other rules:Don't your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what ruleHave you judged Sludge by hitherto?

Well, I add one use

To all the acknowledged uses, and declare

If I spy Charles's Wain at twelve to-night,

It warns me, "Go, nor lose another day,

And have your hair cut, Sludge!" You laugh: and why?

Were such a sign too hard for God to give?

No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace:

Thank you, sir! So you think, so does not Sludge!

When you and good men gape at Providence,

Go into history and bid us mark

Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns

Kept on kings' heads by miracle enough,

But private mercies—oh, you 've told me, sir,

Of such interpositions! How yourself

Once, missing on a memorable day

Your handkerchief—just setting out, you know,—

You must return to fetch it, lost the train,

And saved your precious self from what befell

The thirty-three whom Providence forgot.

You tell, and ask me what I think of this?

Well, sir, I think then, since you needs must know,

What matter had you and Boston city to boot

Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? Much

To you, no doubt: for me—undoubtedly

The cutting of my hair concerns me more,

Because, however sad the truth may seem,

Sludge is of all-importance to himself.

You set apart that day in every year

For special thanksgiving, were a heathen else:

Well, I who cannot boast the like escape,

Suppose I said, "I don't thank Providence

For my part, owing it no gratitude"?

"Nay, but you owe as much,"—you 'd tutor me,

"You, every man alive, for blessings gained

In every hour o' the day, could you but know!

I saw my crowning mercy: all have such,

Could they but see!" Well, sir, why don't they see?

"Because they won't look,—or perhaps, they can't."

Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and do

Look, microscopically as is right,

Into each hour with its infinitude

Of influences at work to profit Sludge?

For that 's the case: I 've sharpened up my sight

To spy a providence in the fire's going out,

The kettle's boiling, the dime's sticking fast

Despite the hole i' the pocket. Call such facts

Fancies, too petty a work for Providence,

And those same thanks which you exact from me

Prove too prodigious payment: thanks for what,

If nothing guards and guides us little men?

No, no, sir! You must put away your pride,

Resolve to let Sludge into partnership!

I live by signs and omens: looked at the roof

Where the pigeons settle—"If the further bird,

The white, takes wing first, I 'll confess when thrashed;

Not, if the blue does,"—so I said to myself

Last week, lest you should take me by surprise:

Off flapped the white,—and I 'm confessing, sir!

Perhaps 't is Providence's whim and way

With only me, i' the world: how can you tell?

"Because unlikely!" Was it likelier, now,

That this our one out of all worlds beside,

The what-d'-you-call-'em millions, should be just

Precisely chosen to make Adam for,

And the rest o' the tale? Yet the tale 's true, you know:

Such undeserving clod was graced so once;

Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge?

Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags?

All you can bring against my privilege

Is, that another way was taken with you,—

Which I don't question. It 's pure grace, my luck:

I 'm broken to the way of nods and winks,

And need no formal summoning. You 've a help;

Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands,

Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all 's one,

He understands you want him, here he comes.

Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, wait

The tongue o' the bell, nor stir before you catch

Reason's clear tingle, nature's clapper brisk,

Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer

Your mother's face turned heavenward: short of these

There 's no authentic intimation, eh?

Well, when you hear, you 'll answer them, start up

And stride into the presence, top of toe,

And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprang

At noise o' the knuckle on the partition-wall!

I think myself the more religious man.

Religion 's all or nothing; it 's no mere smile

O' contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir—

No quality o' the finelier-tempered clay

Like its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuff

O' the very stuff, life of life, and self of self.

I tell you, men won't notice; when they do,

They 'll understand. I notice nothing else:

I 'm eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape,

Nothing eludes me, everything 's a hint,

Handle and help. It 's all absurd, and yet

There 's something in it all, I know: how much?

No answer! What does that prove? Man 's still man,

Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work

When all 's done; but, if somewhat 's done, like this,

Or not done, is the case the same? Suppose

I blunder in my guess at the true sense

O' the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten,—

What if the tenth guess happen to be right?

If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartz

Yield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all,

Pass o'er the failure, pounce on the success.

To give you a notion, now—(let who wins, laugh!)

When first I see a man, what do I first?

Why, count the letters which make up his name,

And as their number chances, even or odd,

Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course:

Hiram H. Horsefall is your honored name,

And have n't I found a patron, sir, in you?

"Shall I cheat this stranger?" I take apple-pips,

Stick one in eithercanthusof my eye,

And if the left drops first—(your left, sir, stuck)

I 'm warned, I let the trick alone this time.

You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash,

You judge of character by other rules:

Don't your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what rule

Have you judged Sludge by hitherto?

Oh, be sure,You, everybody blunders, just as I,In simpler things than these by far! For see:I knew two farmers,—one, a wiseacreWho studied seasons, rummaged almanacs,Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost,And then declared, for outcome of his pains,Next summer must be dampish: 't was a drought.His neighbor prophesied such drought would fall,Saved hay and corn, made cent. per cent. thereby,And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore?Because one brindled heifer, late in March,Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehowHe got into his head that drought was meant!I don't expect all men can do as much:Such kissing goes by favor. You must takeA certain turn of mind for this,—a twistI' the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive,Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater,Letting all nature's loosely-guarded motesSettle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourselfThe one i' the world, the one for whom the worldWas made, expect it, tickling at your mouth!Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies,Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive,Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.

Oh, be sure,

You, everybody blunders, just as I,

In simpler things than these by far! For see:

I knew two farmers,—one, a wiseacre

Who studied seasons, rummaged almanacs,

Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost,

And then declared, for outcome of his pains,

Next summer must be dampish: 't was a drought.

His neighbor prophesied such drought would fall,

Saved hay and corn, made cent. per cent. thereby,

And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore?

Because one brindled heifer, late in March,

Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehow

He got into his head that drought was meant!

I don't expect all men can do as much:

Such kissing goes by favor. You must take

A certain turn of mind for this,—a twist

I' the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive,

Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater,

Letting all nature's loosely-guarded motes

Settle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourself

The one i' the world, the one for whom the world

Was made, expect it, tickling at your mouth!

Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies,

Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive,

Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.

I can't pretend to mind your smiling, sir!Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way,Close converse, frank exchange of offices,Strict sympathy of the immeasurably greatWith the infinitely small, betokened hereBy a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks,—How does it suit the dread traditional textO' the "Great and Terrible Name"? Shall the Heaven of HeavensStoop to such child's play?

I can't pretend to mind your smiling, sir!

Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way,

Close converse, frank exchange of offices,

Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great

With the infinitely small, betokened here

By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks,—

How does it suit the dread traditional text

O' the "Great and Terrible Name"? Shall the Heaven of Heavens

Stoop to such child's play?

Please, sir, go with meA moment, and I 'll try to answer you.The "Magnum et terribile" (is that right?)Well, folk began with this in the early day;And all the acts they recognized in proofWere thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealtIndisputably on men whose death they caused,There, and there only, folk saw ProvidenceAt work,—and seeing it, 't was right enoughAll heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain,And knees knock hard together at the breathO' the Name's first letter; why, the Jews, I 'm told,Won't write it down, no, to this very hour,Nor speak aloud: you know best if 't be so.Each, ague-fit of fear at end, they crept(Because somehow people once born must live)Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o' the Name,Into a corner, the dark rest of the world,And safe space where as yet no fear had reached;'T was there they looked about them, breathed again,And felt indeed at home, as we might say.The current o' common things, the daily life,This had their due contempt; no Name pursuedMan from the mountain-top where fires abide,To his particular mouse-hole at its footWhere he ate, drank, digested, lived in short:Such was man's vulgar business, far too smallTo be worth thunder: "small," folk kept on, "small,"With much complacency in those great days!A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass—What was so despicable as mere grass,Except perhaps the life o' the worm or flyWhich fed there? These were "small" and men were great.Well, sir, the old way 's altered somewhat since,And the world wears another aspect now:Somebody turns our spyglass round, or elsePuts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow, big:We find great things are made of little things,And little things go lessening till at lastComes God behind them. Talk of mountains now?We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mitesThat throng the mould, and God that makes the mites.The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst,The simplest of creations, just a sacThat 's mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet livesAnd feels, and could do neither, we conclude,If simplified still further one degree:The small becomes the dreadful and immense!Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that!A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk,With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there 'sYour dollar's-worth of lightning! But the cyst—The life of the least of the little things?

Please, sir, go with me

A moment, and I 'll try to answer you.

The "Magnum et terribile" (is that right?)

Well, folk began with this in the early day;

And all the acts they recognized in proof

Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt

Indisputably on men whose death they caused,

There, and there only, folk saw Providence

At work,—and seeing it, 't was right enough

All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain,

And knees knock hard together at the breath

O' the Name's first letter; why, the Jews, I 'm told,

Won't write it down, no, to this very hour,

Nor speak aloud: you know best if 't be so.

Each, ague-fit of fear at end, they crept

(Because somehow people once born must live)

Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o' the Name,

Into a corner, the dark rest of the world,

And safe space where as yet no fear had reached;

'T was there they looked about them, breathed again,

And felt indeed at home, as we might say.

The current o' common things, the daily life,

This had their due contempt; no Name pursued

Man from the mountain-top where fires abide,

To his particular mouse-hole at its foot

Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short:

Such was man's vulgar business, far too small

To be worth thunder: "small," folk kept on, "small,"

With much complacency in those great days!

A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass—

What was so despicable as mere grass,

Except perhaps the life o' the worm or fly

Which fed there? These were "small" and men were great.

Well, sir, the old way 's altered somewhat since,

And the world wears another aspect now:

Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else

Puts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow, big:

We find great things are made of little things,

And little things go lessening till at last

Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now?

We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites

That throng the mould, and God that makes the mites.

The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst,

The simplest of creations, just a sac

That 's mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet lives

And feels, and could do neither, we conclude,

If simplified still further one degree:

The small becomes the dreadful and immense!

Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that!

A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk,

With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there 's

Your dollar's-worth of lightning! But the cyst—

The life of the least of the little things?

No, no!Preachers and teachers try another tack,Come near the truth this time: they put asideThunder and lightning. "That 's mistake," they cry;"Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport,But do appreciable good, like tides,Changes o' the wind, and other natural facts—'Good' meaning good to man, his body or soul.Mediate, immediate, all things ministerTo man,—that 's settled: be our future text'We are His children!'" So, they now harangueAbout the intention, the contrivance, allThat keeps up an incessant play of love,—See the Bridgewater book.

No, no!

Preachers and teachers try another tack,

Come near the truth this time: they put aside

Thunder and lightning. "That 's mistake," they cry;

"Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport,

But do appreciable good, like tides,

Changes o' the wind, and other natural facts—

'Good' meaning good to man, his body or soul.

Mediate, immediate, all things minister

To man,—that 's settled: be our future text

'We are His children!'" So, they now harangue

About the intention, the contrivance, all

That keeps up an incessant play of love,—

See the Bridgewater book.

Amen to it!Well, sir, I put this question: I 'm a child?I lose no time, but take you at your word:How shall I act a child's part properly?Your sainted mother, sir,—used you to liveWith such a thought as this a-worrying you?"She has it in her power to throttle me,Or stab or poison: she may turn me out,Or lock me in,—nor stop at this to-day,But cut me off to-morrow from the estateI look for"—(long may you enjoy; it, sir!)"In brief, she may unchild the child I am.You never had such crotchets? Nor have I!Who, frank confessing childship from the first,Cannot both fear and take my ease at once,So, don't fear,—know what might be, well enough,But know too, child-like, that it will not be,At least in my case, mine, the son and heirO' the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style.But do you fancy I stop short at this?Wonder if suit and service, son and heirNeeds must expect, I dare pretend to find?If, looking for signs proper to such an one,I straight perceive them irresistible?Concede that homage is a son's plain right,And, never mind the nods and raps and winks,'T is the pure obvious supernaturalSteps forward, does its duty: why, of course!I have presentiments; my dreams come true:I fancy a friend stands whistling all in whiteBlithe as a boblink, and he's dead I learn.I take dislike to a dog my favorite long,And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps.I guess that stranger will turn up to-dayI have not seen these three years; there 's his knock.I wager "sixty peaches on that tree!"—That I pick up a dollar in my walk,That your wife's brother's cousin's name was George—And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this?You 'd fain distinguish between gift and gift,Washington's oracle and Sludge's itchO' the elbow when at whist he ought to trump?With Sludge it's too absurd?Fine, draw the lineSomewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!

Amen to it!

Well, sir, I put this question: I 'm a child?

I lose no time, but take you at your word:

How shall I act a child's part properly?

Your sainted mother, sir,—used you to live

With such a thought as this a-worrying you?

"She has it in her power to throttle me,

Or stab or poison: she may turn me out,

Or lock me in,—nor stop at this to-day,

But cut me off to-morrow from the estate

I look for"—(long may you enjoy; it, sir!)

"In brief, she may unchild the child I am.

You never had such crotchets? Nor have I!

Who, frank confessing childship from the first,

Cannot both fear and take my ease at once,

So, don't fear,—know what might be, well enough,

But know too, child-like, that it will not be,

At least in my case, mine, the son and heir

O' the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style.

But do you fancy I stop short at this?

Wonder if suit and service, son and heir

Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find?

If, looking for signs proper to such an one,

I straight perceive them irresistible?

Concede that homage is a son's plain right,

And, never mind the nods and raps and winks,

'T is the pure obvious supernatural

Steps forward, does its duty: why, of course!

I have presentiments; my dreams come true:

I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white

Blithe as a boblink, and he's dead I learn.

I take dislike to a dog my favorite long,

And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps.

I guess that stranger will turn up to-day

I have not seen these three years; there 's his knock.

I wager "sixty peaches on that tree!"—

That I pick up a dollar in my walk,

That your wife's brother's cousin's name was George—

And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this?

You 'd fain distinguish between gift and gift,

Washington's oracle and Sludge's itch

O' the elbow when at whist he ought to trump?

With Sludge it's too absurd?Fine, draw the line

Somewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!

Bless us, I 'm turning poet! It 's time to end.How you have drawn me out, sir! All I askIs—am I heir or not heir? If I 'm he,Then, sir, remember, that same personage(To judge by what we read i' the newspaper)Requires, beside one nobleman in goldTo carry up and down his coronet,Another servant, probably a duke,To hold eggnog in readiness: why wantAttendance, sir, when helps in his father's houseAbound, I'd like to know?

Bless us, I 'm turning poet! It 's time to end.

How you have drawn me out, sir! All I ask

Is—am I heir or not heir? If I 'm he,

Then, sir, remember, that same personage

(To judge by what we read i' the newspaper)

Requires, beside one nobleman in gold

To carry up and down his coronet,

Another servant, probably a duke,

To hold eggnog in readiness: why want

Attendance, sir, when helps in his father's house

Abound, I'd like to know?

Enough of talk!My fault is that I tell too plain a truth.Why, which of those-who say they disbelieve,Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream,Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his factHe can't explain, (he'll tell you smilingly,)Which he 's too much of a philosopherTo count as supernatural, indeed,So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it:Bidding you still be on your guard, you know,Because one fact don't make a system stand,Nor prove this an occasional escapeOf spirit beneath the matter: that's the way!Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece,The fact in California, the fine goldThat underlay the gravel—hoarded these,But never made a system stand, nor dug!So wise men hold out in each hollowed palmA handful of experience, sparkling-factThey can't explain; and since their rest of lifeIs all explainable, what proof in this?Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold,And fling away the dirty rest of life,And add this grain to the grain each fool has foundO' the million other such philosophers,—Till I see gold, all gold and only gold,Truth questionless though unexplainable,And the miraculous proved the commonplace!The other fools believed in mud, no doubt—Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange?Are all men born to play Bach's fiddle-fugues,"Time" with the foil in carte, jump their own height,Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five,Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nailsWhile swimming, in five minutes row a mile,Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm,Do sums of fifty figures in their head,And so on, by the scores of instances?The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts,His fellows strive and fail to see, may rankWith these, and share the advantage.

Enough of talk!

My fault is that I tell too plain a truth.

Why, which of those-who say they disbelieve,

Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream,

Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact

He can't explain, (he'll tell you smilingly,)

Which he 's too much of a philosopher

To count as supernatural, indeed,

So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it:

Bidding you still be on your guard, you know,

Because one fact don't make a system stand,

Nor prove this an occasional escape

Of spirit beneath the matter: that's the way!

Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece,

The fact in California, the fine gold

That underlay the gravel—hoarded these,

But never made a system stand, nor dug!

So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm

A handful of experience, sparkling-fact

They can't explain; and since their rest of life

Is all explainable, what proof in this?

Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold,

And fling away the dirty rest of life,

And add this grain to the grain each fool has found

O' the million other such philosophers,—

Till I see gold, all gold and only gold,

Truth questionless though unexplainable,

And the miraculous proved the commonplace!

The other fools believed in mud, no doubt—

Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange?

Are all men born to play Bach's fiddle-fugues,

"Time" with the foil in carte, jump their own height,

Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five,

Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nails

While swimming, in five minutes row a mile,

Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm,

Do sums of fifty figures in their head,

And so on, by the scores of instances?

The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts,

His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank

With these, and share the advantage.

Ay, but shareThe drawback! Think it over by yourself;I have not heart, sir, and the fire 's gone gray.Defect somewhere compensates for success,Every one knows that. Oh, we 're equals, sir!The big-legged fellow has a little armAnd a less brain, though big legs win the race:Do you suppose I 'scape the common lot?Say,Iwas born with flesh so sensitive,Soul so alert, that, practice helping both,I guess what 's going on outside the veil,Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-timeIn the islands where his kind are, so must fallTo capering by himself some shiny night,As if your back-yard were a plot of spice—Thus am I 'ware o' the spirit-world: while you,Blind as a beetle that way,—for amends,Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours,Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,Never brag, never bluster, never blush,—In short, you 've pluck, when I 'm a coward—there!I know it, I can't help it,—folly or no.I 'm paralyzed, my hand 's no more a hand,Nor my head a head, in danger: you can smileAnd change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift 's not mine.Would you swap for mine? No! but you 'd add my giftTo yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so muchBeing dressed gayly, making strangers stare,Eating nice things; when I 'd amuse myself,I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain,I 'm—now the President, now Jenny Lind,Now Emerson, now the Benicia Boy—With all the civilized world a-wonderingAnd worshipping. I know it 's folly and worse;I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,But I can't cure myself,—despond, despair,And then, hey, presto, there 's a turn o' the wheel,Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends;Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred thingsYou all are blind to,—I 've my taste of truth,Likewise my touch of falsehood,—vice no doubt,But you 've your vices also: I'm content.

Ay, but share

The drawback! Think it over by yourself;

I have not heart, sir, and the fire 's gone gray.

Defect somewhere compensates for success,

Every one knows that. Oh, we 're equals, sir!

The big-legged fellow has a little arm

And a less brain, though big legs win the race:

Do you suppose I 'scape the common lot?

Say,Iwas born with flesh so sensitive,

Soul so alert, that, practice helping both,

I guess what 's going on outside the veil,

Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time

In the islands where his kind are, so must fall

To capering by himself some shiny night,

As if your back-yard were a plot of spice—

Thus am I 'ware o' the spirit-world: while you,

Blind as a beetle that way,—for amends,

Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!

Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours,

Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,

Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,

Never brag, never bluster, never blush,—

In short, you 've pluck, when I 'm a coward—there!

I know it, I can't help it,—folly or no.

I 'm paralyzed, my hand 's no more a hand,

Nor my head a head, in danger: you can smile

And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift 's not mine.

Would you swap for mine? No! but you 'd add my gift

To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,

Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,

Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much

Being dressed gayly, making strangers stare,

Eating nice things; when I 'd amuse myself,

I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain,

I 'm—now the President, now Jenny Lind,

Now Emerson, now the Benicia Boy—

With all the civilized world a-wondering

And worshipping. I know it 's folly and worse;

I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,

But I can't cure myself,—despond, despair,

And then, hey, presto, there 's a turn o' the wheel,

Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends;

Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred things

You all are blind to,—I 've my taste of truth,

Likewise my touch of falsehood,—vice no doubt,

But you 've your vices also: I'm content.

What, sir? You won't shake hands? "Because I cheat!""You 've found me out in cheating!" That 's enoughTo make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat,Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act,Are you, or rather, am I sure o' the fact?(There 's verse again, but I 'm inspired somehow.)Well then I 'm not sure! I may be, perhaps,Free as a babe from cheating: how it began,My gift,—no matter; what 't is got to beIn the end now, that 's the question; answer that!Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine,Leading me whither, I had died of fright:So, I was made believe I led myself.If I should lay a six-inch plank from roofTo roof, you would not cross the street, one step,Even at your mother's summons: but, being shrewd,If I paste paper on each side the plankAnd swear 't is solid pavement, why, you 'll crossHumming a tune the while, in ignoranceBeacon Street stretches a hundred feet below:I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone.Some impulse made me set a thing o' the moveWhich, started once, ran really by itself;Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite,It takes the wind and floats of its own force.Don't let truth's lump rot stagnant for the lackOf a timely helpful lie to leaven it!Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen,She 'll lay a real one, laudably deceived,Daily for weeks to come. I 've told my lie,And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine;All was not cheating, sir, I 'm positive!I don't know if I move your hand sometimesWhen the spontaneous writing spreads so far,If my knee lifts the table all that height,Why the inkstand don't fall off the desk a-tilt,Why the accordion plays a prettier waltzThan I can pick out on the pianoforte,Why I speak so much more than I intend,Describe so many things I never saw.I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believeNothing at all,—that everybody can,Will, and does cheat: but in another senseI'm ready to believe my very self—That every cheat 's inspired, and every lieQuick with a germ of truth.

What, sir? You won't shake hands? "Because I cheat!"

"You 've found me out in cheating!" That 's enough

To make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat,

Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act,

Are you, or rather, am I sure o' the fact?

(There 's verse again, but I 'm inspired somehow.)

Well then I 'm not sure! I may be, perhaps,

Free as a babe from cheating: how it began,

My gift,—no matter; what 't is got to be

In the end now, that 's the question; answer that!

Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine,

Leading me whither, I had died of fright:

So, I was made believe I led myself.

If I should lay a six-inch plank from roof

To roof, you would not cross the street, one step,

Even at your mother's summons: but, being shrewd,

If I paste paper on each side the plank

And swear 't is solid pavement, why, you 'll cross

Humming a tune the while, in ignorance

Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below:

I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone.

Some impulse made me set a thing o' the move

Which, started once, ran really by itself;

Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite,

It takes the wind and floats of its own force.

Don't let truth's lump rot stagnant for the lack

Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it!

Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen,

She 'll lay a real one, laudably deceived,

Daily for weeks to come. I 've told my lie,

And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine;

All was not cheating, sir, I 'm positive!

I don't know if I move your hand sometimes

When the spontaneous writing spreads so far,

If my knee lifts the table all that height,

Why the inkstand don't fall off the desk a-tilt,

Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz

Than I can pick out on the pianoforte,

Why I speak so much more than I intend,

Describe so many things I never saw.

I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believe

Nothing at all,—that everybody can,

Will, and does cheat: but in another sense

I'm ready to believe my very self—

That every cheat 's inspired, and every lie

Quick with a germ of truth.

You ask perhapsWhy I should condescend to trick at allIf I know a way without it? This is why!There 's a strange secret sweet self-sacrificeIn any desecration of one's soulTo a worthy end,—is n't it Herodotus(I wish I could read Latin!) who describesThe single gift o' the land's virginity,Demanded in those old Egyptian rites,(I 've but a hazy notion—help me, sir!)For one purpose in the world, one day in a life,One hour in a day—thereafter, purity,And a veil thrown o'er the past forevermore!Well now, they understood a many thingsDown by Nile city, or wherever it was!I 've always vowed, after the minute's lie,And the end's gain,—truth should be mine henceforth.This goes to the root o' the matter, sir,—this plainPlump fact: accept it and unlock with itThe wards of many a puzzle!

You ask perhaps

Why I should condescend to trick at all

If I know a way without it? This is why!

There 's a strange secret sweet self-sacrifice

In any desecration of one's soul

To a worthy end,—is n't it Herodotus

(I wish I could read Latin!) who describes

The single gift o' the land's virginity,

Demanded in those old Egyptian rites,

(I 've but a hazy notion—help me, sir!)

For one purpose in the world, one day in a life,

One hour in a day—thereafter, purity,

And a veil thrown o'er the past forevermore!

Well now, they understood a many things

Down by Nile city, or wherever it was!

I 've always vowed, after the minute's lie,

And the end's gain,—truth should be mine henceforth.

This goes to the root o' the matter, sir,—this plain

Plump fact: accept it and unlock with it

The wards of many a puzzle!

Or, finally,Why should I set so fine a gloss on things?What need I care? I cheat in self-defence,And there 's my answer to a world of cheats!Cheat? To be sure, sir! What's the world worth else?Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars?Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing upAnd polishing over? Your so-styled great men,Do they accept one truth as truth is found,Or try their skill at tinkering? What 's your world?Here are you born, who are, I 'll say at once,Of the luckiest kind, whether in head and heart,Body and soul, or all that helps them both.Well, now, look back: what faculty of yoursCame to its full, had ample justice doneBy growing when rain fell, tiding its time,Solidifying growth when earth was dead,Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due?Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off,Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout;One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end,All you boast is, "I had proved a topping treeIn other climes,"—yet this was the right climeHad you foreknown the seasons. Young, you 've forceWasted like well-streams: old,—oh, then indeed,Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipesThrough which you 'd play off wondrous water-work;Only, no water 's left to feed their play.Young,—you 've a hope, an aim, a love; it 's tossedAnd crossed and lost: you struggle on, some sparkShut in your heart against the puffs around,Through cold and pain; these in due time subside,Now then for age's triumph, the hoarded lightYou mean to loose on the altered face of things,—Up with it on the tripod! It 's extinct.Spend your life's remnant asking, which was best,Light smothered up that never peeped forth, once,Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine?Well, accept this too,—seek the fruit of itNot in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth,But knowledge, useful for a second chance,Another life,—you 've lost this world—you 've gainedIts knowledge for the next.—What knowledge, sir,Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubtWhether 't were better have made you man or brute,If aught be true, if good and evil clash.No foal, no fair, no inside, no outside,There 's your world!

Or, finally,

Why should I set so fine a gloss on things?

What need I care? I cheat in self-defence,

And there 's my answer to a world of cheats!

Cheat? To be sure, sir! What's the world worth else?

Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars?

Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing up

And polishing over? Your so-styled great men,

Do they accept one truth as truth is found,

Or try their skill at tinkering? What 's your world?

Here are you born, who are, I 'll say at once,

Of the luckiest kind, whether in head and heart,

Body and soul, or all that helps them both.

Well, now, look back: what faculty of yours

Came to its full, had ample justice done

By growing when rain fell, tiding its time,

Solidifying growth when earth was dead,

Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due?

Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off,

Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout;

One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end,

All you boast is, "I had proved a topping tree

In other climes,"—yet this was the right clime

Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you 've force

Wasted like well-streams: old,—oh, then indeed,

Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes

Through which you 'd play off wondrous water-work;

Only, no water 's left to feed their play.

Young,—you 've a hope, an aim, a love; it 's tossed

And crossed and lost: you struggle on, some spark

Shut in your heart against the puffs around,

Through cold and pain; these in due time subside,

Now then for age's triumph, the hoarded light

You mean to loose on the altered face of things,—

Up with it on the tripod! It 's extinct.

Spend your life's remnant asking, which was best,

Light smothered up that never peeped forth, once,

Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine?

Well, accept this too,—seek the fruit of it

Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth,

But knowledge, useful for a second chance,

Another life,—you 've lost this world—you 've gained

Its knowledge for the next.—What knowledge, sir,

Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubt

Whether 't were better have made you man or brute,

If aught be true, if good and evil clash.

No foal, no fair, no inside, no outside,

There 's your world!

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