With firm expectancy and a frank look-out
For his own allotment, his especial share
I’ the secret, – his particular ghost, in fine?
I mean, a person born to look that way,
Since natures differ: take the painter-sort,
One man lives fifty years in ignorance
Whether grass be green or red, – ‘No kind of eye
[870] For colour,’ say you; while another picks
And puts away even pebbles, when a child,
Because of bluish spots and pinky veins –
‘Give him forthwith a paint-box!’ Just the same
Was I born … ‘medium,’ you won’t let me say, –
Well, seer of the supernatural
Everywhen, every how and everywhere, –
Will that do?
I and all such boys of course
Started with the same stock of Bible-truth;
Only, – what in the rest you style their sense,
[880] Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative,
This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law
And ours another: ‘New world, new laws,’ cried they:
‘None but old laws, seen everywhere at work,’
Cried I, and by their help explained my life
The Jews’ way, still a working way to me.
Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights,
Or Santa Claus slid down on New Year’s Eve
And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed,
Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate
[890] O’ the sum that came to grief the day before.
This could not last long: soon enough I found
Who had worked wonder thus, and to what end:
But did I find all easy, like my mates?
Henceforth no supernatural any more?
Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls?
‘A cue, ’ you answer: ‘Yes, a cue,’ said I;
‘But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue?
What unseen agency, outside the world,
Prompted its puppets to do this and that,
[900] Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind,
These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?’
Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since.
Just so I reason, in sober earnest still,
About the greater godsends, what you call
The serious gains and losses of my life.
What do I know or care about your world
Which either is or seems to be? This snap
O’ my fingers, sir! My care is for myself;
Myself am whole and sole reality
[910] Inside a raree-show and a market-mob
Gathered about it: that’s the use of things.
’Tis easy saying they serve vast purposes,
Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false,
Each thing may have two uses. What’s a star?
A world, or a world’s sun: doesn’t it serve
As taper also, time-piece, weather-glass,
And almanac? Are stars not set for signs
When we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees?
The Bible says so.
Well, I add one use
[920] To all the acknowledged uses, and declare
If I spy Charles’s Wain at twelve tonight,
It warns me, ‘Go, nor lose another day,
And have your hair cut, Sludge!’ You laugh: and why?
Were such a sign too hard for God to give?
No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace:
Thank you, sir! So you think, so does not Sludge!
When you and good men gape at Providence,
Go into history and bid us mark
Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns
[930] Kept on kings’ heads by miracle enough,
But private mercies – oh, you’ve told me, sir,
Of such interpositions! How yourself
Once, missing on a memorable day
Your handkerchief – just setting out, you know, –
You must return to fetch it, lost the train,
And saved your precious self from what befell
The thirty-three whom Providence forgot.
You tell, and ask me what I think of this?
Well, sir, I think then, since you needs must know,
[940] What matter had you and Boston city to boot
Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? Much
To you, no doubt: for me – undoubtedly
The cutting of my hair concerns me more,
Because, however sad the truth may seem,
Sludge is of all-importance to himself.
You set apart that day in every year
For special thanksgiving, were a heathen else:
Well, I who cannot boast the like escape,
Suppose I said ‘I don’t thank Providence
[950] For my part, owing it no gratitude’?
‘Nay, but you owe as much’ – you’d tutor me,
‘You, every man alive, for blessings gained
In every hour o’ the day, could you but know!
I saw my crowning mercy: all have such,
Could they but see!’ Well, sir, why don’t they see?
‘Because they won’t look, – or perhaps, they can’t.’
Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and do
Look, microscopically as is right,
Into each hour with its infinitude
[960] Of influences at work to profit Sludge?
For that’s the case: I’ve sharpened up my sight
To spy a providence in the fire’s going out,
The kettle’s boiling, the dime’s sticking fast
Despite the hole i’ the pocket. Call such facts
Fancies, too petty a work for Providence,
And those same thanks which you exact from me
Prove too prodigious payment: thanks for what,
If nothing guards and guides us little men?
No, no, sir! You must put away your pride,
[970] Resolve to let Sludge into partnership!
I live by signs and omens: looked at the roof
Where the pigeons settle – ‘If the further bird,
The white, takes wing first, I’ll confess when thrashed;
Not, if the blue does’ – so I said to myself
Last week, lest you should take me by surprise:
Off flapped the white, – and I’m confessing, sir!
Perhaps ‘tis Providence’s whim and way
With only me, i’ the world: how can you tell?
‘Because unlikely!’ Was it likelier, now,
[980] That this our one out of all worlds beside,
The what-d’you-call-’em millions, should be just
Precisely chosen to make Adam for,
And the rest o’ the tale? Yet the tale’s true, you know:
Such undeserving clod was graced so once;
Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge?
Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags?
All you can bring against my privilege
Is, that another way was taken with you, –
Which I don’t question. It’s pure grace, my luck:
[990] I’m broken to the way of nods and winks,
And need no formal summoning. You’ve a help;
Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands,
Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all’s one,
He understands you want him, here he comes.
Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, wait
The tongue o’ the bell, nor stir before you catch
Reason’s clear tingle, nature’s clapper brisk,
Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer
Your mother’s face turned heavenward: short of these
[1000] There’s no
authentic intimation, eh?
Well, when you hear, you’ll answer them, start up
And stride into the presence, top of toe,
And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprang
At noise o’ the knuckle on the partition-wall
I think myself the more religious man.
Religion’s all or nothing; it’s no mere smile
O’ contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir –
No quality o’ the finelier-tempered clay
Like its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuff
[1010] O’ the very stuff, life of life, and self of self.
I tell you, men won’t notice; when they do,
They’ll understand. I notice nothing else:
I’m eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape,
Nothing eludes me, everything’s a hint,
Handle and help. It’s all absurd, and yet
There’s something in it all, I know: how much?
No answer! What does that prove? Man’s still man,
Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work
When all’s done; but, if somewhat’s done, like this,
[1020] Or not done, is the case the same? Suppose
I blunder in my guess at the true sense
O’ the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten, –
What if the tenth guess happen to be right?
If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartz
Yield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all,
Pass o’er the failure, pounce on the success.
To give you a notion, now – (let who wins, laugh!)
When first I see a man, what do I first?
Why, count the letters which make up his name,
[1030] And as their number chances, even or odd,
Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course:
Hiram H. Horsefall is your honoured name,
And haven’t I found a patron, sir, in you?
‘Shall I cheat this stranger?’ I take apple-pips,
Stick one in either canthus of my eye,
And if the left drops first – (your left, sir, stuck)
I’m warned, I let the trick alone this time.
You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash,
You judge of character by other rules:
[1040] Don’t your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what rule
Have you judged Sludge by hitherto?
Oh, be sure,
You, everybody blunders, just as I,
In simpler things than these by far! For see:
I knew two farmers, – one, a wiseacre
Who studied seasons, rummaged almanacs,
Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost,
And then declared, for outcome of his pains,
Next summer must be dampish: ’twas a drought.
His neighbour prophesied such drought would fall,
[1050] Saved hay and corn, made cent. per cent. thereby,
And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore?
Because one brindled heifer, late in March,
Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehow
He got into his head that drought was meant!
I don’t expect all men can do as much:
Such kissing goes by favour. You must take
A certain turn of mind for this, – a twist
I’ the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive,
Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater,
[1060] Letting all nature’s loosely-guarded motes
Settle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourself
The one i’ the world, the one for whom the world
Was made, expect it tickling at your mouth!
Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies,
Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive,
Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.
I can’t pretend to mind your smiling, sir!
Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way,
Close converse, frank exchange of offices,
[1070] Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great
With the infinitely small, betokened here
By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks, –
How does it suit the dread traditional text
O’ the ‘Great and Terrible Name’? Shall the Heaven of
Heavens
Stoop to such child’s play?
Please, sir, go with me
A moment, and I’ll try to answer you.
The ‘Magnum et terribile’ (is that right?)
Well, folk began with this in the early day;
And all the acts they recognized in proof
[1080] Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt
Indisputably on men whose death they caused.
There, and there only, folk saw Providence
At work, – and seeing it, ’twas right enough
All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain,
And knees knock hard together at the breath
O’ the Name’s first letter; why, the Jews, I’m told,
Won’t write it down, no, to this very hour,
Nor speak aloud: you know best if’t be so.
Each ague-fit of fear at end, they crept
[1090] (Because somehow people once born must live)
Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o’ the Name,
Into a corner, the dark rest of the world,
And safe space where as yet no fear had reached;
’Twas there they looked about them, breathed again,
And felt indeed at home, as we might say.
The current o’ common things, the daily life,
This had their due contempt; no Name pursued
Man from the mountain-top where fires abide,
To his particular mouse-hole at its foot
[1100] Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short:
Such was man’s vulgar business, far too small
To be worth thunder: ‘small, ’ folk kept on, ‘small,’
With much complacency in those great days!
A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass –
What was so despicable as mere grass,
Except perhaps the life o’ the worm or fly
Which fed there? These were ‘small’ and men were great.
Well, sir, the old way’s altered somewhat since,
And the world wears another aspect now:
[1110] Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else
Puts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow big:
We find great things are made of little things,
And little things go lessening till at last
Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now?
We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites
That throng the mould, and God that makes the mites.
The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst,
The simplest of creations, just a sac
That’s mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet lives
[1120] And feels, and could do neither, we conclude,
If simplified still further one degree:
The small becomes the dreadful and immense!
Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that!
A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk,
With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there’s
Your dollar’s-worth of lightning! But the cyst –
The life of the least of the little things?
No, no!
Preachers and teachers try another tack,
Come near the truth this time: they put aside
[1130] Thunder and lightning: ‘That’s mistake,’ they cry,
‘Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport,
But do appreciable good, like tides,
Changes o’ the wind, and other natural facts –
“Good” meaning good to man, his body or soul.
Mediate, immediate, all things minister
To man, – that’s settled: be our future text
“We are His children!”’ So, they now harangue
About the intention, the contrivance, all
That keeps up an incessant play of love, –
See the Bridgewater book.
[1140] Amen to it!
Well, sir, I put this question: I’m a child?
I lose no time, but take you at your word:
How shall I act a child’s part properly?
Your sainted mother, sir, – used you to live
With such a thought as this a-worrying you?
‘She has it in her power to throttle me,
Or stab or poison: she may turn me out
Or lock me in, – nor stop at this today,
But cut me off tomorrow from the estate
[1150] I look for’ – (long may you enjoy it, sir!)
‘In brief, she may unchild the child I am.’
You never had such crotchets? Nor have I!
Who, frank confessing childship from the first,
Cannot both fear and take my ease at once,
So, don’t fear, – know what might be, well enough,
But know too, child-like, that it will not be,
At least in my case, mine, the son and heir
O’ the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style.
But do you fancy I stop short at this?
[1160] Wonder if suit and service, son and heir
Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find?
If, looking for signs proper to such an one,
I straight perceive them irresistible?
Concede that homage is a son’s plain right,
And, never mind the nods and raps and winks,
’Tis the pure obvious supernatural
Steps forward, does its duty: why, of course!
I have presentiments; my dreams come true:
I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white
[1170] Blithe as a boblink, and he’s dead I learn.
I take dislike to a dog my favourite long,
And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps.
I guess that stranger will turn up today
I have not seen these three years; there’s his knock.
I wager ‘sixty peaches on that tree!’ –
That I pick up a dollar in my walk,
That your wife’s brother’s cousin’s name was George –
And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this?
You’d fain distinguish between gift and gift,
[1180] Washington’s oracle and Sludge’s itch
O’ the elbow when at whist he ought to trump?
With Sludge it’s too absurd? Fine, draw the line
Somewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!
Bless us, I’m turning poet! It’s time to end.
Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) Page 21