To half-expression through his ignorance.
Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed
New music he's brimful of; why, he turns
The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,
And what he poured in at the mouth o' the mill

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

Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, naught else, The Shakers' Hymn in G, with a natural F,

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

Sir, where's the scrape you did not help me through,
You that are wise? And for the fools, the folks
Who came to see, the guests, (observe that word!)
Pray do you find guests criticise your wine,
Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose?
Then, why your "medium"? What's the difference?
Prove your madeira red-ink and gamboge,-
Your Sludge, a cheat, then, somebody's a goose

"Guests!"

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!" Ay, doubt they do! And what's the consequence? "Of course they doubt”

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

"How, when a mocker willed a 'medium' once

Should name a spirit James whose name was George,
'James' cried the 'medium,'—'t was the test of truth!”
In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more.
Does this convince? The better: does it fail?
Time for the double-shotted broadside, then -

The grand means, last resource. Look black and big! "You style us idiots, therefore-why stop short? Accomplices in rascality: this we hear

In our own house, from our invited guest
Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy

Exposed by our good faith! Have you been heard?
Now, then, hear us; one man's not quite worth twelve.
You see a cheat? Here's some twelve see an ass:

Excuse me if I calculate: good day!"

Out slinks the sceptic, all the laughs explode,

Sludge waves his hat in triumph!

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 gray old cat she is.

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

Huggings and humbug,- gnashed my teeth to mark

A decent dog pass!

It's too bad, I say,

Ruining a soul so!

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

Where may one stop? Nowhere! The cheating's nursed Out of the lying, softly and surely spun

To just your length, sir! I'd stop soon enough:

But you 're for

progress.

"All old, nothing new?

Only the usual talking through the mouth,

Or writing by the hand? I own, I thought

This would develop, grow demonstrable,

Make doubt absurd, give figures we might see,

Flowers we might touch. There's no one doubts you,

Sludge!

You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights,

The speeches come in your head, beyond dispute.
Still, for the sceptics' sake, to stop all mouths,
We want some outward manifestation!—well,
The Pennsylvanians gained such; why not Sludge?
He may improve with time!"

Ay, that he may!

He sees his lot: there's no avoiding fate.

"T is a trifle at first. "Eh, David? Did you hear? You jogged the table, your foot caused the squeak,

This time you 're . . . joking, are you not, my boy?"

The old good easy jog-trot way, the ... eh?
The... not so very false, as falsehood goes,
The spinning out and drawing fine, you know, -

Really mere novel-writing of a sort,

Acting, or improvising, make-believe,

Surely not downright cheatery! Any how,

"T is done with and my lot cast: Cheat's my name:

The fatal dash of brandy in your tea

Has settled what you'll have the souchong's smack:

The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle.

Then, it's so cruel easy! O, those tricks

That can't be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand,
Clearly no common conjurer's!-no, indeed!

A conjurer? Choose me any craft in the world
A man puts hand to; and with six months' pains,
I'd play you twenty tricks miraculous

To people untaught the trade: have you seen glass blown.
Pipes pierced? Why, just this biscuit that I chip,

Did you ever watch a baker toss one flat

To the oven? Try and do it! Take my word,
Practise but half as much, while limbs are lithe,
To turn, shove, tilt a table, crack your joints,
Manage your feet, dispose your hands aright,
Work wires that twitch the curtains, play the glove

At end of your slipper, then put out the lights

And... there, there, all you want you'll get, I hope! I found it slip, easy as an old shoe.