"Sludge, the Medium," is intended to show that even so ignoble a person
as a sham medium may have something to say in his own defence; and so
far as argument goes, Sludge defends himself successfully on two
separate lines. But in the one case he excuses his imposture: in the
other, he in great measure disproves it. And this second part of the
monologue has been construed by some readers into a genuine plea for the
theory and practice of "spiritualism." Nothing, however, could be more
opposed to the general tenour of Mr. Browning's work. He is simply
showing us what such a man might say in his own behalf, supposing that
the credulity of others had tempted him into a cheat, or that his own
credulity had made him a self-deceiver; or, what was equally possible,
in even the present case, that both processes had gone on at the same
time. The amount of abstract truth which the monologue is intended to
convey is in itself small, and more diluted with exaggeration and
falsehood than in any other poem of this group.
Sludge has been found cheating in the house of his principal patron and
dupe. The raps indicating the presence of a departed mother have been
distinctly traced to the medium's toes. There is no lying himself out of
it this time, so he offers to confess, on condition that the means of
leaving the country are secured to him. There is a little bargaining on
this subject, and he then begins:--
"He never meant to cheat. It is the gentlefolk who have teased him into
doing it; they _would_ be taken in. If a poor boy like him tells a lie
about money, or anything else in which they are 'up,' they are ready
enough to thrash it out of him; but when it is something out of their
way, like saying: he has had a vision--he has seen a ghost--it's 'Oh,
how curious! Tell us all about it. Sit down, my boy. Don't be
frightened, &c. &c.;' and so they lead him on. Presently he is obliged
to invent. They have found out he is a medium. A medium he has got to
be. 'Couldn't you hear this? Didn't you see that? Try again. Other
mediums have done it, perhaps you may.' And, of course, the next night
he sees and hears what is expected of him."
"He gets well into his work. He sees visions; peeps into the glass ball;
makes spirits write and rap, and the rest of it. There is nothing to
stop him. If he mixes up Bacon and Cromwell, it only proves that they
are both trying to speak through him at once. If he makes Locke talk
gibberish, and Beethoven play the Shakers' hymn, and a dozen other such
things: 'Oh! the spirits are using him and suiting themselves out of his
stock.' When he guesses right, it shows his truth. When he doesn't, it
shows his honesty. A hit is good and a miss is better. When he boggles
outright, 'he is confused with the phenomena.' And when this has gone on
for weeks, and he has been clothed and cosseted, and his patrons have
staked their penetration upon him; how is he to turn round and say he
has been cheating all the time? 'I should like to see you do it!' It
isn't that he wouldn't often have liked to be in the gutter again!"
This amusing account is diversified with expressions of Sludge's hearty
contempt for all the men and women he has imposed upon: above all, for
their absurd fancy that any scrap of unexpected information must have
come to him in a supernatural way. "As if a man could hold his nose out
of doors, and one smut out of the millions not stick to it; sit still
for a whole day, and one atom of news not drift into his ear!" This idea
recurs in various forms.
Well! he owns that he has cheated; and now that he has done so, he is
not at all sure that it _was_ all cheating, that there wasn't something
real in it after all. "We are all taught to believe that there is
another world; and the Bible shows that men have had dealings with it.
We are told this can't happen now, because we are under another law. But
I don't believe we are under another law. Some men 'see' and others
don't, that's the only difference. I see a sign and a message in
everything that happens to me; but I take a small message where you want
a big one. I am the servant who comes at a tap of his master's knuckle
on the wall; you are the servant who only comes when the bell rings. Of
course I mistake the sign sometimes. But what does that matter if I
sometimes don't mistake? You say: one fact doesn't establish a system.
You are like the Indian who picked up a scrap of gold, and never dug
for more. You pick up one sparkling fact, and let it go again. I pick up
one such, then another and another, and let go the dirt which makes up
the rest of life."
Sludge combats the probable objection that the heavenly powers are too
great, and he is too small for the kind of services he expects of them.
Everything, he delares, serves a small purpose as well as a great one.
Moreover, nothing nowadays _is_ small. It is at all events the lesser
things and not the greater which are spoken of with awe. The simple
creature which is only a sac is the nearest to the creative power; and
since also man's filial relation to the Creator is that most insisted
on, the more familiar and confiding attitude is the right one.
He lastly declares and illustrates his view that many a truth may
stagnate for want of a lie to set it going, and thinks it likely enough
that God allows him to imagine he is wielding a sham power, because he
would die of fright if he knew it was a real one. He adds one or two
somewhat irrelevant items to his defence; then finding his patron
unconvinced, discharges on him a volley of abuse, and decides to try his
luck elsewhere. "There must be plenty more fools in other parts of the
world."