Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) (27 page)

How, when and where, precisely, – find it out!

[860] I want to know, then, what’s so natural

As that a person born into this world

And seized on by such teaching, should begin

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,