Mr. Sludge, "The Medium"

By Robert Browning

"Mr. Sludge, "The Medium"" by Robert Browning. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2021
• ISBN: 4064066447700

Robert Browning

Robert Browning (1812-1889) was an English poet and playwright. Browning was born in London to an abolitionist family with extensive literary and musical interests. He developed a skill for poetry as a teenager, while also learning French, Greek, Latin, and Italian. Browning found early success with the publication of Pauline (1833) and Paracelsus (1835), but his career and notoriety lapsed over the next two decades, resurfacing with his collection Men and Women (1855) and reaching its height with the 1869 publication of his epic poem The Ring and the Book. Browning married the Romantic poet Elizabeth Barrett in 1846 and lived with her in Italy until her death in 1861. In his remaining years, with his reputation established and the best of his work behind him, Browning compiled and published his wife’s final poems, wrote a series of moderately acclaimed long poems, and traveled across Europe. Browning is remembered as a master of the dramatic monologue and a defining figure in Victorian English poetry.

Book preview

Robert Browning

Mr. Sludge, The Medium

Published by Good Press, 2021

[e-mail]

EAN 4064066447700

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me!

Just this once! This was the first and only time, I'll swear,—

Look at me,—see, I kneel,—the only time,

I swear, I ever cheated,—yes, by the soul

Of Her who hears—(your sainted mother, sir!)

All, except this last accident, was truth—

This little kind of slip!—and even this,

It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne,

(I took it for Catawba, you 're so kind)

Which put the folly in my head!

                                                  Get up? ⁠10

You still inflict on me that terrible face?

You show no mercy?—Not for Her dear sake,

The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now

Blows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir?)

You 'll tell?

                    Go tell, then! Who the devil cares

What such a rowdy chooses to . . .

                                                        Aie—aie—aie!

Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir!

Ch—ch!

                    Well, sir, I hope you 've done it now!

Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday,

When your departed mother spoke those words ⁠20

Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much,

You gave me—(very kind it was of you)

These shirt-studs—(better take them back again,

Please, sir)—yes, little did I think so soon

A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much

Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends

Into an angry gentleman!

                                        Though, 't was wrong.

I don't contest the point; your anger's just:

Whatever put such folly in my head,

I know 't was wicked of me. There 's a thick ⁠30

Dusk undeveloped spirit (I 've observed)

Owes me a grudge—a negro's, I should say,

Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourself

Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir,

When we had summoned Franklin to clear up

A point about those shares i' the telegraph:

Ay, and he swore . . . or might it be Tom Paine? . . .

Thumping the table close by where I crouched,

He 'd do me soon a mischief: that 's come true!

Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would! ⁠40

Then, this one time . . . don't take your hand away,

Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand . . .

You'll promise to forgive me?—or, at least,

Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!

What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade

Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe

A rap or tip! What bit of paper 's here?

Suppose we take a pencil, let her write,

Make the least sign, she urges on her child

Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'T was your foot, ⁠50

And not a natural creak, sir?

                                                Answer, then!

Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I'm waiting to say thrice!

All to no use? No sort of hope for me?

It 's all to post to Greeley's newspaper?

What? If I told you all about the tricks?

Upon my soul?—the whole truth, and nought else,

And how there 's been some falsehood—for your part,

Will you engage to pay my passage out,

And hold your tongue until I 'm safe on board?

England's the place, not Boston—no offence! ⁠60

I see what makes you hesitate: don't fear!

I mean to change my trade and cheat no more,

Yes, this time really it 's upon my soul!

Be my salvation!—under Heaven, of course.

I 'll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do.

A trifle, though, to start with! We 'll refer

The question to this table?

                                            How you re changed!

Then split the difference; thirty