Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) (24 page)

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 neighbour chose, not you:

There’s no outwitting you respecting him!

For instance, men love money – that, you know

And what men do to gain it: well, suppose

A poor lad, say a help’s son in your house,

Listening at keyholes, hears the company

[100]
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,

[110] His cousin died and left it him by will,

The President flung it to him, riding by,

An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair,

He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched,

He dug up clay, and out of clay made gold’ –

How would you treat such possibilities?

Would not you, prompt, investigate the case

With cow-hide? ‘Lies, lies, lies,’you’d shout: and why?

Which of the stories might not prove mere truth?

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

[120] 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 behaviour! While the lad –

With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods,

Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize:

In his case, you hear, judge and execute,

All in a breath: so would most men of sense.

[130] But let the same lad hear you talk as grand

At the same keyhole, you and company,

Of signs and wonders, the invisible world;

How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief

More than our vulgarest credulity;

How good men have desired to see a ghost,

What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did,

Mother Goose thought, and fiddle-diddle-dee: –

If he break in with, ‘Sir,
I
saw a ghost!’

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

[140] It’s a conceit of yours that ghosts may be:

There’s no talk now of cow-hide. ‘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 candour, all’s considerateness – ‘No haste!

[150] Pause and collect yourself! We understand!

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

Or the unexplained
phenomena
!’

                                       Egad,

The boy takes heart of grace; finds, never fear,

The readiest way to ope your own heart wide,

Show – what I call your peacock-perch, pet post

To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon!

‘Just as you thought, much as you might expect!

There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’ …

And so on. Shall not David take the hint,

[160] 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 (‘Person?’ thank you, sir!)

Much more, proficient in the art of lies.

[170] You never leave the lesson! Fire alight,

Catch you permitting it to die! You’ve friends;

There’s no withholding knowledge, – least from those

Apt to look elsewhere for their souls’ supply:

Why should not you parade your lawful prize?

Who finds a picture, digs a medal up,

Hits on a first edition, – he henceforth

Gives it his name, grows notable: how much more,

Who ferrets out a ‘medium’? ‘David’s yours,

You highly-favoured man? Then, pity souls

[180] 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,

’Tis just for science’ sake: I call such grubs

By the name of what they’ll turn to, dragonflies.

Strictly, it’s what good people style untruth;

But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing:

[190] 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?

’Tis but a foot in the water and out again;

Not that duck-under which decides your dive.

[200] Note this, for it’s important: listen why.

I’ll prove, you push on David till he dives

And ends the shivering. Here’s your circle, now:

Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host,

Turn up their eyes, and cry, as you expect,

‘Lord, 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

[210] 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,

[220] 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!’

                                      Straight

The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed,

Sips silent some such beverage as this,

Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes

And gulping David in good fellowship,

Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange,

With no egg-nog to lubricate the food,

[230] 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,

[240] All’s fit to set a-rolling round the world,

And then return to David finally,

Lies seven-feet thick about his first half-inch.

Here’s a choice birth o’ the supernatural,

Poor David’s pledged to! You’ve employed no tool

That laws exclaim at, save the 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 part

Of a lie, that’s his fault, – his be the penalty!

[250] 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

[260] You’ve told almighty Boston of this passage

Of arms between us, your first taste o’ the foil

From Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy!

I lied, sir, – there! I got up from my gorge

On offal in the gutter, and preferred

Your canvas-backs: I took their carver’s size,

Measured his modicum of intelligence,

Tickled him on the cockles of his heart

With a raven feather, and next week found myself

Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart,

[270] Set on a stool buttressed by ladies’ knees,

Every soft smiler calling me her pet,

Encouraging my story to uncoil

And creep out from its hole, inch after inch,

‘How last night, I no sooner snug in bed,

Tucked up, just as they left me, – than came raps!

While a light whisked’ … ‘Shaped somewhat like a star?’

‘Well, like some sort of stars, ma’am.’ – ‘So we thought!

And any voice? Not yet? Try hard, next time,

If you can’t hear a voice; we think you may:

[280] At least, the Pennsylvanian “mediums” did.’

Oh, next time comes the voice! ‘Just as we hoped!’

Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse

O’ the natural acknowledgement?

                            Of course!

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

On we sweep with a cataract ahead,

We’re midway to the Horseshoe: stop, who can,

The dance of bubbles gay about our prow!

Experiences become worth waiting for,

Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind,

[290] And compliment the ‘medium’ properly,

Concern themselves about his Sunday coat,

See rings on his hand with pleasure. Ask yourself

How you’d receive a course of treats like these!

Why, take the quietest hack and stall him up,

Cram him with corn a month, then out with him

Among his mates on a bright April morn,

With the turf to tread; see if you find or no

A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts!

Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rank

[300] As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. ’Tis soon,

‘Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry,

Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!’

I’m spared all further trouble; all’s arranged;

Your circle does my business; I may rave

Like an epileptic dervish in the books,

Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds;

No matter: lovers, friends and countrymen

Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right

By the rule o’ reverse. If Francis Verulam

[310] Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside

With a
y
and a
k
, says he drew breath in York,

Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned,

(As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say,

Before I found the useful book that knows)

Why, what harm’s done? The circle smiles apace,

‘It was not Bacon, after all, you see!

We understand; the trick’s but natural:

Such spirits’ individuality

Is hard to put in evidence: they incline

[320] To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts.

You see, their world’s much like a gaol broke loose,

While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred,

With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend,

Serves as this window, whether thin or thick,

Or stained or stainless; he’s the medium-pane

Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep:

They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,

Tread on their neighbour’s kibes, play tricks enough!

Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside?

[330] Up in his place jumps Barnum – “I’m your man,

I’ll answer you for Bacon!” Try once more!’

Or else it’s – ‘What’s a “medium”? He’s a means,

Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means

Spirits can speak by; he may misconceive,

Stutter and stammer, – he’s their Sludge and drudge,

Take him or leave him; they must hold their peace,

Or else, put up with having knowledge strained

To half-expression through his ignorance.

Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed

[340] New music he’s brimful of; why, he turns

The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,

And what he poured in at the mouth o’ the mill

As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now!)

Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, naught else,

The Shakers’ Hymn in G, with a natural F,

Or the “Stars and Stripes” set to consecutive fourths.’