Bacon advises, Shakespeare writes you songs,
And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you.
So it goes on, not quite like life, perhaps,
But so near, that the very difference piques,
Shows that e'en better than this best will be,

This passing entertainment in a hut

Whose bare walls take your taste since, one stage

And

more,

you arrive at the palace: all half real,

And you, to suit it, 'less than real besides,

In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life,

That helps the interchange of natures, flesh

Transfused by souls, and such souls! O, 't is choice!
And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin,
Seem nigh on bursting, - if you nearly see

The real world through the false, - what do

Is the old so ruined?

you see

You find you're in a flock

Of the youthful, earnest, passionate, genius, beauty,

Rank and wealth also, if you care for these,

And all depose their natural rights, hail you,
(That's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow,
Participate in Sludgehood-nay, grow mine,

I veritably possess them banish doubt,

And reticence and modesty alike!

Why, here's the Golden Age, old Paradise

?

Or new Eutopia! Here is life indeed,

And the world well won now, found for the first time!

And all this might be, may be, and with good help
Of a little lying shall be so, Sludge lies!
Why, he's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks
That never were, in Troy which never was,
Did this or the other impossible great thing!
Ile's Lowell—it's a world, you smile and say,
Of his own invention wondrous Longfellow,

Surprising Hawthorne! Sludge does more than they, And acts the books they write: the more 's his praise!

But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose, -
Dealers in common sense, set these at work,
What can they do without their helpful lies?
Each states the law and fact and face of the thing
Just as he'd have them, finds what he thinks fit,
Is blind to what missuits him, just records

What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest.
It's a History of the World, the Lizard Age,
The Early Indians, the Old Country War,
Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please,
All as the author wants it. Such a scribe
You pay and praise for putting life in stones,

Fire into fog, making the past your world.

There's plenty of "How did you contrive to grasp
The thread which led you through this labyrinth?
How build such solid fabric out of air?

How on so slight foundation found this tale,
Biography, description ?"-in other words,
"How many lies did it require to tell

The portly truth you here present us with?
"O," quoth the penman, purring at your praise,
'Tis fancy all; no particle of fact:

I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book
'Bliss in the Golden City.' I, at Thebes ?

We writers paint out of our heads, you see!"

66

Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you,

The more creativeness and godlike craft!"

But I, do I present you with my piece,

It's "What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed

About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven

Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house,-
You made the raps? 'T was your invention that?

Cur, slave, and devil!"-eight fingers and two thumbs
Stuck in
my throat!

Well, if the marks seem gone,

'Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken in time,

Is better for a bruise than arnica.

There, sir! I bear no malice: 't is n't in me.

I know I acted wrongly : still, I've tried

What I could say in my excuse,

to show

The devil's not all devil... I don't pretend,

An angel, much less such a gentleman

As you, sir! And I've lost

you,

lost myself,

Lost all, 1-1-1-. . . .

No- are you in earnest, sir?

O, yours, sir, is an angel's part! I know

What prejudice must be, what the common course

Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit :

Only you rise superior to it all!

No, sir, it don't hurt much; it's speaking long
That makes me choke a little: the marks will go!
What? Twenty V-notes more, and outfit too,

And not a word to Greeley?

Of the hand that saves me!

One

one kiss

You'll not let me speak,

I well know, and I've lost the right, too true!

But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does)

Your sainted. Well, sir,

- be it so!

...

That's, I think,

My bed-room candle. Good night! Bl-l-less you, sir!

R-r-r, you brute, beast, and blackguard! Cowardly

scamp!

I only wish I dared burn down the house

And spoil your sniggering!

man?

You're satisfied at last?

O, what, you're the

You've found out Sludge?

We'll see that presently: my turn, sir, next!
I too can tell my story: brute, do you hear?
You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag,
In just such a fit of passion: no, it was . . .

To get this house of hers, and many a note

...

...

Like these. I'll pocket them, however . . . five,
Ten, fifteen

ay, you gave her throat the twist,

Or else you poisoned her! Confound the cuss!
Where was my head? I ought to have prophesied
He'll die in a year and join her: that's the way.

I don't know where my head is: what have I done?
How did it all go? I said he'd poisoned her,
And hoped he'd have grace given him to repent,
Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me

And called me cheat: I thrashed him,

help?

He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees

To cut and run and save him from disgrace :

who could