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 of reverse. If Francis Verulam
Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside
With a y and a k, says he drew breath in York,
Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned,
(As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say,
Before I found the useful book that knows)
Why, what harm 's done? The circle smiles apace,
"It was not Bacon, after all, do you see!
We understand; the trick 's but natural :
Such spirits' individuality

Is hard to put in evidence: they incline

To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts.
You see, their world 's much like a jail broke loose,
While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred,
With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend,
Serves as this window, whether thin or thick,
Or stained or stainless; he's the medium-pane
Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep:
They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,
Tread on their neighbour's kibes, play tricks enough!
Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside?

THE MEDIUM.

Up in his place jumps Barnum-'I'm your man,
I'll answer you for Bacon!' Try once more!"

Or else it 's-"What 's a' medium'? He's a means,
Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means
Spirits can speak by; he may misconceive,

Stutter and stammer,-he 's their Sludge and drudge,
Take him or leave him; they must hold their peace,
Or else, put up with having knowledge strained
To half-expression through his ignorance.
Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed
New music he 's brimfull of; why, he turns
The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,
And what he poured in at the mouth o' the mill
As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now!)

Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, nought

else,

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

Or the Stars and Stripes' set to consecutive fourths."

Sir, where's the scrape you did not help me through,
You that are wise? And for the fools, the folk
Who came to see, the guests, (observe that word!)
Pray do you find guests criticize your wine,
Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose?
Then, why your "medium ?" What's the difference?

THE MEDIUM.

Prove your madeira red-ink and gamboge,—

Your Sludge, a cheat-then, somebody's a goose
For vaunting both as genuine. "Guests!" Don't

fear!

They'll make a wry face, nor too much of that,

And leave you in your glory.

"No, sometimes

They doubt and say as much!"
And what's the consequence?

doubt"

Ay, doubt they do! "Of course they

(You triumph) "that explains the hitch at once! Doubt posed our 'medium,' puddled his pure mind; He gave them back their rubbish pitch chaff in, Could flour come out o' the honest mill?" So, prompt

Applaud the faithful: cases flock in point,

66

How, when a mocker willed a 'medium' once

Should name a spirit James whose name was

George,

'James' cried the 'medium,'-'twas the test of

truth!"

In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more.
Does this convince? The better: does it fail?

Time for the double-shotted broadside, then

The grand means, last resource. Look black and big!

"You style us idiots, therefore-why stop short?
Accomplices in rascality: this we hear

In our own house, from our invited guest
Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy
Exposed by our good faith!

heard?

Have you been

Now, then, hear us; one man's not quite worth

twelve.

You see a cheat? Here's some twelve see an ass: Excuse me if I calculate: good day!"

Out slinks the sceptic, all the laughs explode,

Sludge waves his hat in triumph!

Or he don't.

There's something in real truth (explain who can !) One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse

Who mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won't

munch

Because he spies a corn-bag: hang that truth,
It spoils all dainties proffered in its place!
I've felt at times when, cockered, cossetted
And coddled by the aforesaid company,
Bidden enjoy their bullying,-never fear,
But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying man,-
I've felt a child; only, a fractious child

That, dandled soft by nurse, aunt, grandmother,

Who keep him from the kennel, sun and wind, Good fun and wholesome mud,-enjoined be sweet, And comely and superior,-eyes askance

The ragged sons of the gutter at their game,

Fain would be down with them i̇' the thick of the

filth,

Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain,
And calling granny the grey old cat she is.

I've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them,

Huggings and humbug-gnashed my teeth to mark
A decent dog pass! It's too bad, I say,
Ruining a soul so!

But what 's "so," what 's fixed,

Where may one stop? Nowhere! The cheating 's

nursed

Out of the lying, softly and surely spun

To just your length, sir!

But you 're for progress.

I'd stop soon enough:

"All old, nothing new?

Only the usual talking through the mouth,
Or writing by the hand? I own, I thought
This would develop, grow demonstrable,

Make doubt absurd, give figures we might see,

Flowers we might touch. There's no one doubts

you, Sludge !

You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights,