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

more,

And you arrive at the palace: all half real,
And you, to suit it, less than real beside,
In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life,
That helps the interchange of natures, flesh
Transfused by souls, and such souls! Oh, 'tis 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 you see?
Is the old so ruined? You find you're in a flock
O' 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's true life indeed,

And the world well won now, mine 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!
He's Lowell-it's a world (you smile applause),
Of his own invention-wondrous Longfellow,
Surprising Hawthorne! Sludge does more than they,
And acts the books they write: the more 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 o' 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, narrative?" or, in other words, "How many lies did it require to make

"The portly truth you here present us with?" Oh," 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!" "-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 isn'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,

He's 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 prompts, and what's the common

course

Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit:
Only you rise superior to it all!

No, sír, 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? One-one kiss

O' the hand that saves me! 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! Oh what, you 're the man?
You're satisfied at last? 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 had I done?
How did it all go? I said he 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,-who could help?

He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees
To cut and run and save him from disgrace:
I do so, and once off, he slanders me.
An end of him! Begin elsewhere anew!
Boston's a hole, the herring-pond is wide,
V-notes are something, liberty still more.
Beside, is he the only fool in the world?

APPARENT FAILURE

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."

Paris Newspaper

No, for I'll save it! Seven years since,

I passed through Paris, stopped a day
To see the baptism of your Prince;
Saw, made my bow, and went my way:
Walking the heat and headache off,

I took the Seine-side, you surmise,
Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,
Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies,
So sauntered till-what met my eyes?

Only the Doric little Morgue!

The dead-house where you show your drowned:
Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,
Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.
One pays one's debt in such a case;

I plucked up heart and entered,-stalked,
Keeping a tolerable face

Compared with some whose cheeks were
chalked:

Let them! No Briton's to be baulked!

First came the silent gazers; next,
A screen of glass, we 're thankful for;
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,
The three men who did most abhor
Their life in Paris yesterday,

So killed themselves: and now, enthroned
Each on his copper couch, they lay

Fronting me, waiting to be owned.

I thought, and think, their sin's atoned.

Poor men, God made, and all for that!
The reverence struck me; o'er each head
Religiously was hung its hat,

Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,
Sacred from touch: each had his berth,
His bounds, his proper place of rest,
Who last night tenanted on earth

Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,Unless the plain asphalte seemed best.

How did it happen, my poor boy?

You wanted to be Buonaparte

And have the Tuileries for toy,

And could not, so it broke your heart?

You, old one by his side, I judge,
Were, red as blood, a socialist,

A leveller! Does the Empire grudge

You've gained what no Republic missed?
Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

And this-why, he was red in vain,
Or black,-poor fellow that is blue!
What fancy was it turned your brain?
Oh, women were the prize for you!
Money gets women, cards and dice
Get money, and ill-luck gets just
The copper couch and one clear nice
Cool squirt of water o'er your bust,
The right thing to extinguish lust!