(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)
The recent extraordinary discovery in Photography, as applied to the
operations of the mind, has reduced the art of novel-writing to the
merest mechanical labour. We have been kindly permitted by the artist
to be present during one of his experiments; but as the invention has
not yet been given to the world, we are only at liberty to relate the
results, suppressing all details of chemicals and manipulation.
The operator began by stating that the ideas of the feeblest intellect,
when once received on properly prepared paper, could be “developed”
up to any required degree of intensity. On hearing our wish that he
would begin with an extreme case, he obligingly summoned a young man
from an adjoining room, who appeared to be of the very weakest possible
physical and mental powers. On being asked what we thought of him we
candidly confessed that he seemed incapable of anything but sleep; our
friend cordially assented to this opinion.
The machine being in position, and a mesmeric rapport established
between the mind of the patient and the object glass, the young man was
asked whether he wished to say anything; he feebly replied “Nothing.”
He was then asked what he was thinking of, and the answer, as before,
was “Nothing.” The artist on this pronounced him to be in a most
satisfactory state, and at once commenced the operation.
After the paper had been exposed for the requisite time, it was removed
and submitted to our inspection; we found it to be covered with
faint and almost illegible characters. A closer scrutiny revealed the
following:
[Illustration]
“The eve was soft and dewy mild; a zephyr whispered in the lofty
glade, and a few light drops of rain cooled the thirsty soil. At a
slow amble, along the primrose-bordered path rode a gentle-looking and
amiable youth, holding a light cane in his delicate hand; the pony
moved gracefully beneath him, inhaling as it went the fragrance of
the roadside flowers; the calm smile, and languid eyes, so admirably
harmonising with the fair features of the rider, showed the even tenor
of his thoughts. With a sweet though feeble voice, he plaintively
murmured out the gentle regrets that clouded his breast:
‘Alas! she would not hear my prayer!
Yet it were rash to tear my hair;
Disfigured, I should be less fair.
‘She was unwise, I may say blind;
Once she was lovingly inclined;
Some circumstance has changed her mind.’
There was a moment’s silence; the pony stumbled over a stone in the
path, and unseated his rider. A crash was heard among the dried
leaves; the youth arose; a slight bruise on his left shoulder, and a
disarrangement of his cravat, were the only traces that remained of
this trifling accident.”
“This,” we remarked, as we returned the paper, “belongs apparently to
the milk-and-water School of Novels.”
“You are quite right,” our friend replied, “and, in its present state,
it is, of course, utterly unsaleable in the present day: we shall find,
however, that the next stage of development will remove it into the
strong-minded or Matter-of-Fact School.” After dipping it into various
acids, he again submitted it to us: it had now become the following:
“The evening was of the ordinary character, barometer at ‘change’; a
wind was getting up in the wood, and some rain was beginning to fall;
a bad look-out for the farmers. A gentleman approached along the
bridle-road, carrying a stout knobbed stick in his hand, and mounted on
a serviceable nag, possibly worth some £40 or so; there was a settled
business-like expression on the rider’s face, and he whistled as he
rode; he seemed to be hunting for rhymes in his head, and at length
repeated, in a satisfied tone, the following composition:
‘Well! so my offer was no go!
She might do worse, I told her so;
She was a fool to answer “No.”
‘However, things are as they stood;
Nor would I have her if I could,
For there are plenty more as good.’
At this moment the horse set his foot in a hole, and rolled over; his
rider rose with difficulty; he had sustained several severe bruises and
fractured two ribs; it was some time before he forgot that unlucky day.”
We returned this with the strongest expression of admiration, and
requested that it might now be developed to the highest possible
degree. Our friend readily consented, and shortly presented us with
the result, which he informed us belonged to the Spasmodic or German
School. We perused it with indescribable sensations of surprise and
delight:
“The night was wildly tempestuous--a hurricane raved through the murky
forest--furious torrents of rain lashed the groaning earth. With a
headling rush--down a precipitous mountain gorge--dashed a mounted
horseman armed to the teeth--his horse bounded beneath him at a mad
gallop, snorting fire from its distended nostrils as it flew. The
rider’s knotted brows--rolling eyeballs--and clenched teeth--expressed
the intense agony of his mind--weird visions loomed upon his burning
brain--while with a mad yell he poured forth the torrent of his boiling
passion:
‘Firebrands and daggers! hope hath fled!
To atoms dash the doubly dead!
My brain is fire--my heart is lead!
‘Her soul is flint, and what am I?
Scorch’d by her fierce, relentless eye,
Nothingness is my destiny!’
There was a moment’s pause. Horror! his path ended in a fathomless
abyss.... A rush--a flash--a crash--all was over. Three drops of blood,
two teeth, and a stirrup were all that remained to tell where the wild
horseman met his doom.”
The young man was now recalled to consciousness, and shown the result
of the workings of his mind; he instantly fainted away.
In the present infancy of the art we forbear from further comment on
this wonderful discovery; but the mind reels as it contemplates the
stupendous addition thus made to the powers of science.
Our friend concluded with various minor experiments, such as working
up a passage of Wordsworth into strong, sterling poetry: the same
experiment was tried on a passage of Byron, at our request, but the
paper came out scorched and blistered all over by the fiery epithets
thus produced.
As a concluding remark: _could_ this art be applied (we put the
question in the strictest confidence)--_could_ it, we ask, be applied
to the speeches in Parliament? It may be but a delusion of our heated
imagination, but we will still cling fondly to the idea, and hope
against hope.
HINTS FOR ETIQUETTE; OR, DINING OUT
MADE EASY
(From “The Rectory Umbrella”)
As caterers for the public taste, we can conscientiously recommend this
book to all diners-out who are perfectly unacquainted with the usages
of society. However we may regret that our author has confined himself
to warning rather than advice, we are bound in justice to say that
nothing here stated will be found to contradict the habits of the best
circles. The following examples exhibit a depth of penetration and a
fullness of experience rarely met with:
[Illustration]
I
In proceeding to the dining-room, the gentleman gives one arm to the
lady he escorts--it is unusual to offer both.