MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." Now, don't sir! Don't expose me! Just this once ! This was the first and only time, I'll swear, Of Her who hears, -(your sainted mother, sir!) All, except this last accident, was truth, This little kind of slip! - and even this, It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne, You still inflict on me that terrible face? You show no mercy?- Not for Her dear sake, The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now Blows on my cheek -(don't you feel something, sir?) You'll tell? Go tell, then! Who the devil cares What such a rowdy chooses to .. Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir! Ch-ch! Well, sir, I hope you've done it now ! O Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday, When your departed mother spoke those words Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, Please, sir!)—yes, little did I think so soon A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends Into an angry gentleman! Though, 't was wrong. I don't contest the point; your anger's just: Whatever put such folly in my head, I know 't was wicked of me. There's a thick, Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourself Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir, When we had summoned Franklin to clear up Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would! What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe A rap or tip! What bit of paper 's here? Make the least sign, she urges on her child Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'T was your foot, And not a natural creak, sir? Answer, then! Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I'm waiting to say "thrice!* ... All to no use? No sort of hope for me? It's all to post to Greeley's newspaper? What? If I told you all about the tricks? Upon my soul!—the whole truth, and naught else, And how there's been some falsehood for your part, Will you engage to pay my passage out, England's the place, not Boston, — no offence! I see what makes you hesitate: don't fear! I mean to change my trade and cheat no more, Yes, this time really it's upon my soul ! Be salvation! my under Heaven, of course. I'll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do. How you're changed! Then split the difference; thirty more, we'll say. Your fault! "T is you'll have forced me! Who's obliged At all events, I'll run the risk. Eh? May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now! Done ! I've been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs, Here goes, Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol! You see, sir, it's your own fault more than mine; It's all your fault, you curious gentlefolks! You 're prigs, -excuse me, - like to look so spry, So clever, while you cling by half a claw To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost, Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch Because you chose it, so it must be safe. O, otherwise you 're sharp enough! You spy Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing, Wanting real foothold, who can't keep upright On the other perch, your neighbor chose, not you : There's no outwitting you respecting him! For instance, men love money, that, you know, And what men do to gain it: well, suppose |