Selected Poems (Penguin Classics)

by Robert Browning

[230] Some just as tough a morsel. Over the way,

  Holds Captain Sparks his court: is it better there?

  Have not you hunting-stories, scalping-scenes,

  And Mexican War exploits to swallow plump

  If you’d be free o’ the stove-side, rocking-chair,

  And trio of affable daughters?

  Doubt succumbs!

  Victory! All your circle’s yours again!

  Out of the clubbing of submissive wits,

  David’s performance rounds, each chink gets patched,

  Every protrusion of a point’s filed fine,

  [240] All’s fit to set a-rolling round the world,

  And then return to David finally,

  Lies seven-feet thick about his first half-inch.

  Here’s a choice birth o’ the supernatural,

  Poor David’s pledged to! You’ve employed no tool

  That laws exclaim at, save the devil’s own,

  Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you

  To the top o’ your bent, – all out of one half-lie!

  You hold, if there’s one half or a hundredth part

  Of a lie, that’s his fault, – his be the penalty!

  [250] I dare say! You’d prove firmer in his place?

  You’d find the courage, – that first flurry over,

  That mild bit of romancing-work at end, –

  To interpose with ‘It gets serious, this;

  Must stop here. Sir, I saw no ghost at all.

  Inform your friends I made … well, fools of them,

  And found you ready-made. I’ve lived in clover

  These three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!’

  I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know,

  Twelve months hence, with how few embellishments

  [260] You’ve told almighty Boston of this passage

  Of arms between us, your first taste o’ the foil

  From Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy!

  I lied, sir, – there! I got up from my gorge

  On offal in the gutter, and preferred

  Your canvas-backs: I took their carver’s size,

  Measured his modicum of intelligence,

  Tickled him on the cockles of his heart

  With a raven feather, and next week found myself

  Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart,

  [270] Set on a stool buttressed by ladies’ knees,

  Every soft smiler calling me her pet,

  Encouraging my story to uncoil

  And creep out from its hole, inch after inch,

  ‘How last night, I no sooner snug in bed,

  Tucked up, just as they left me, – than came raps!

  While a light whisked’ … ‘Shaped somewhat like a star?’

  ‘Well, like some sort of stars, ma’am.’ – ‘So we thought!

  And any voice? Not yet? Try hard, next time,

  If you can’t hear a voice; we think you may:

  [280] At least, the Pennsylvanian “mediums” did.’

  Oh, next time comes the voice! ‘Just as we hoped!’

  Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse

  O’ the natural acknowledgement?

  Of course!

  So, off we push, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat,

  On we sweep with a cataract ahead,

  We’re midway to the Horseshoe: stop, who can,

  The dance of bubbles gay about our prow!

  Experiences become worth waiting for,

  Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind,

  [290] And compliment the ‘medium’ properly,

  Concern themselves about his Sunday coat,

  See rings on his hand with pleasure. Ask yourself

  How you’d receive a course of treats like these!

  Why, take the quietest hack and stall him up,

  Cram him with corn a month, then out with him

  Among his mates on a bright April morn,

  With the turf to tread; see if you find or no

  A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts!

  Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rank

  [300] As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. ’Tis soon,

  ‘Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry,

  Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!’

  I’m spared all further trouble; all’s arranged;

  Your circle does my business; I may rave

  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 o’ reverse. If Francis Verulam

  [310] 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, you see!

  We understand; the trick’s but natural:

  Such spirits’ individuality

  Is hard to put in evidence: they incline

  [320] To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts.

  You see, their world’s much like a gaol 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?

  [330] 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

  [340] 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 folk

  Who came to see, – the guests, (observe that word!)

  [350] Pray do you find guests criticize 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

  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’ –

  [360] (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,” –’twas the test of truth!’

  In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more.

  Does this convince? The better: does it fail?

  [370] 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!’

  [380] 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, cosseted

  And coddled by the aforesaid company,

  Bidden enjoy their bullying, – never fear,

  [390] 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 o’ the gutter at their game,

  Fain would be down with them i’ the thick o’ the filth,

  Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain,

  And calling granny the grey old cat she is.

  [400] 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

  [410] 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.

  [420] ’Tis 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?’

  ‘N-n-no!’ – and I’m done for, bought and sold henceforth.

  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,

  [430] ’Tis 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! Oh, 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 i’ the world

  A man puts hand to; and with six months’ pains,

  I’ll play you twenty tricks miraculous

  [440] 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 o’ your slipper, – then put out the lights

  And … there, there, all you want you’ll get, I hope!

  [450] I found it slip, easy as an old shoe.

  Now, lights on table again! I’ve done my part,

  You take my place while I give thanks and rest.

  ‘Well, Judge Humgruffin, what’s your verdict, sir?

  You, hardest head in the United States, –

  Did you detect a cheat here? Wait! Let’s see!

  Just an experiment first, for candour’s sake!

  I’ll try and cheat you, Judge! The table tilts:

  Is it I that move it? Write! I’ll press your hand:

  Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge!’

  [460] Sludge still triumphant! ‘That a rap, indeed?

  That, the real writing? Very like a whale!

  Then, if, sir you – a most distinguished man,

  And, were the Judge not here, I’d say, … no matter!

  Well, sir, if you fail, you can’t take us in, –

  There’s little fear that Sludge will!’

  Won’t he, ma’am?

  But what if our distinguished host, like Sludge,

  Bade God bear witness that he played no trick,

  While you believed that what produced the raps

  Was just a certain child who died, you know,

  [470] And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt?

  Eh? That’s a capital point, ma’am: Sludge begins

  At your entreaty with your dearest dead,

  The little voice set lisping once again,

  The tiny hand made feel for yours once more,

  The poor lost image brought back, plain as dreams,

  Which image, if a word had chanced recall,

  The customary cloud would cross your eyes,

  Your heart return the old tick, pay its pang!

  A right mood for investigation, this!

  [480] One’s at one’s ease with Saul and Jonathan,

  Pompey and Caesar: but one’s own lost child …

  I wonder, when you heard the first clod drop

  From the spadeful at the grave-side, felt you free

  To investigate who twitched your funeral scarf

  Or brushed your flounces? Then, it came of course

  You should be stunned and stupid; then, (how else?)

  Your breath stopped with your blood, your brain struck work.

  But now, such causes fail of such effects,

  All’s changed, – the little voice begins afresh,

  [490] Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try

  And touch the truth. ‘Tests? Didn’t the creature tell

  Its nurse’s name, and say it lived six years,

  And rode a rocking-horse? Enough of tests!

  Sludge never could learn that!’

  He co
uld not, eh?

  You compliment him. ‘Could not?’ Speak for yourself!

  I’d like to know the man I ever saw

  Once, – never mind where, how, why, when, – once saw,

  Of whom I do not keep some matter in mind

  He’d swear I ‘could not’ know, sagacious soul!

  [500] What? Do you live in this world’s blow of blacks,

  Palaver, gossipry, a single hour

  Nor find one smut has settled on your nose,

  Of a smut’s worth, no more, no less? – one fact

  Out of the drift of facts, whereby you learn

  What someone was, somewhere, somewhen, somewhy?

  You don’t tell folk – ‘See what has stuck to me!

  Judge Humgruffin, our most distinguished man,

  Your uncle was a tailor, and your wife

  Thought to have married Miggs, missed him, hit you!’ –

  [510] Do you, sir, though, you see him twice a-week?

  ‘No,’ you reply, ‘what use retailing it?

  Why should I?’ But, you see, one day you should,

  Because one day there’s much use, – when this fact

  Brings you the Judge upon both gouty knees

  Before the supernatural; proves that Sludge

  Knows, as you say, a thing he ‘could not’ know:

  Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face

  The way the wind drives?

  ‘Could not!’ Look you now,

  I’ll tell you a story! There’s a whiskered chap,

  [520] A foreigner, that teaches music here

  And gets his bread, – knowing no better way:

  He says, the fellow who informed of him

  And made him fly his country and fall West

  Was a hunchback cobbler, sat, stitched soles and sang,

  In some outlandish place, the city Rome,

  In a cellar by their Broadway, all day long;

  Never asked questions, stopped to listen or look,

  Nor lifted nose from lapstone; let the world

  Roll round his three-legged stool, and news run in

  [530] The ears he hardly seemed to keep pricked up.

  Well, that man went on Sundays, touched his pay,

  And took his praise from government, you see;

  For something like two dollars every week,

  He’d engage tell you some one little thing

  Of some one man, which led to many more,

  (Because one truth leads right to the world’s end)

  And make you that man’s master – when he dined

  And on what dish, where walked to keep his health

  And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus

  [540] His sense out, like an ant-eater’s long tongue,

  Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible,

  And when ’twas crusted o’er with creatures – slick,