Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (107 page)

If you can find anything in what I have just read to you to account for my present condition, you are welcome to do so; but, as I before remarked, all I can tell you is that I am shaken, and sore, and stiff, and bruised, and that how I came so I haven't the faintest idea.

PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY

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 slèep; 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:

`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 harmonizing 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 headlong 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.

THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY

CHAPTER ONE

THE Baron was pacing his tapestried chamber two mortal hours ere sunrise.
Ever and anon he would pause at the open casement, and gaze from its giddy height on the ground beneath.
Then a stern smile would light up his gloomy brow, and muttering to himself in smothered accents, `'twill do' he would again resume his lonely march.

Uprose the glorious sun, and illumined the darkened world with the light of day: still was the haughty Baron pacing his chamber, albeit his step was hastier and more impatient than before, and more than once he stood motionless, listening anxiously and eagerly, then turned with a disappointed air upon his heel, while a darker shade passed over his brow.
Suddenly the trumpet which hung at the castle gate gave forth a shrill blast: the Baron heard it, and savagely beating his breast with both his clenched fists, he murmured in bitter tone `the time draws nigh, I must nerve myself for action.'
Then, throwing himself into an easy chair, he hastily drank off the contents of a large goblet of wine which stood on the table, and in vain attempted to assume an air of indifference.
The door was suddenly thrown open and in a loud voice an attendant announced `Signor Blowski!'

`Be seated!
Signor!
you are early this morn, and Alonzo!
ho!
fetch a cup of wine for the Signor!
spice it well, boy!
ha!
ha!
ha!'
and the Baron laughed loud and boisterously, but the laugh was forced and hollow, and died quickly away.
Meanwhile the stranger, who had not uttered a syllable, carefully divested himself of his hat and gloves, and seated himself opposite to the Baron, then having quietly waited till the Baron's laughter had subsided, he commenced in a harsh grating tone, `The Baron Muggzwig greets you, and sends you this'; why did a sudden paleness overspread the Baron Slogdod's features?
why did his fingers tremble, so that he could scarcely open the letter?
for one moment he glanced at it, and then raising his head, `Taste the wine, Signor,' he said in strangely altered tone, `regale yourself, I pray,' handing him one of the goblets which had just been brought in.

The Signor received it with a smile, put his lips to it, and then quietly changing goblets with the Baron without his perceiving it, swallowed half the contents at a draught.
At that moment Baron Slogdod looked up, watched him for a moment as he drank, and smiled the smile of a wolf.

For full ten minutes there was a dead silence through the apartment, and then the Baron closed the letter, and raised his face: their eyes met: the Signor had many a time faced a savage tiger at bay without flinching, but now he involuntarily turned away his eyes.
Then did the Baron speak in calm and measured tone: `You know, I presume, the contents of this letter?'
the Signor bowed, `and you await an answer?'
`I do.'
`
This
, then, is my answer,' shouted the Baron, rushing upon him, and in another moment he had precipitated him from the open window.
He gazed after him for a few seconds as he fell, and then tearing up the letter which lay on the table into innumerable pieces, he scattered them to the wind.

CHAPTER TWO

`ONE!
two!
three!'
The magician set down the bottle, and sank exhausted into a seat: `Nine weary hours,' he sighed, as he wiped his smoking brow, `nine weary hours have I been toiling, and only got to the eight-hundred and thirty-second ingredient!
a-well!
I verily believe Martin Wagner hath ordered three drops of everything on the face of this earth in his prescription.
However there are only a hundred and sixty-eight ingredients more to put in—'twill soon be done—then comes the seething—and then—' He was checked in his soliloquy by a low timid rap outside: `'Tis Blowski's knock,' muttered the old man, as he slowly undid the bars and fastenings of the door, `I marvel what brings
him
here at this late hour.
He is a bird of evil omen: I do mistrust his vulture face.—Why!
how now, Signor?'
he cried, starting back in surprise as his visitor entered, `where got you that black eye?
and verily your face is bruised like any rainbow!
who has insulted you?
or rather,' he muttered in an undertone, `whom have you been insulting, for that were the more likely of the two.'

`Never mind my face, good father,' hastily answered Blowski, `I only tripped up, coming home last night in the dark, that's all, I do assure you.
But I am now come on other business—I want advice—or rather I should say I want your opinion—on a difficult question—suppose a man was to—suppose two men—suppose there were two men, A and B—' `suppose!
suppose!'
contemptuously muttered the magician, `and suppose these men, good father, that is A, was to bring B a letter, then we'll suppose A read the letter, that is B, and then B tried—I mean A tried—to poison B—I mean A—and then suppose'—`My son,' here interposed the old man, `is this a general case you are putting?
Methinks you state it in a marvellously confused manner.'
`Of
course
it's a general case,' savagely answered Blowski, `and if you'd just listen instead of interrupting, methinks you'd understand it better!'
`Proceed, my son,' mildly replied the other.

`And then suppose A—that is B—threw A out of the window—or rather,' he added in conclusion, being himself by this time a little confused, `or rather I should have said the other way.'
The old man rubbed his beard, and mused for some time: `Aye, aye,' he said at length, `I see, A—B—so so—B poisons A—' `No!
no!'
cried the signor, `B
tries
to poison A, he didn't really do it, I changed the—I mean,' he hastily added, turning crimson as he spoke, `you're to
suppose
that he doesn't really do it.'
`Aye!'
continued the magician, `it's all clear
now
—B—A—to be sure—but what has all this to do with your cut face?'
he suddenly asked.
`Nothing whatever,' stammered Blowski, `I've told you once that I cut my face by a fall from my horse—' `Ah!
well!
let's see,' repeated the other in a low voice, `tripped up in the dark—fell from his horse—hm!
hm!—yes, my lad,
you're
in for it—I should say,' he continued in a louder voice, `it were better—but troth I know not yet what the question is.'
`Why, what had B better do,' said the signor.
`But who is B?'
inquired the magician, `standeth B for Blowski?'
`No,' was the reply, `I meant A.'
`Oh!'
returned he, `
now
I perceive—but verily I must have time to consider it, so adieu, fair sir,' and, opening the door he abruptly showed his visitor out: `And now,' said he to himself, `for the mixture—let me see—three drops of—yes, yes, my lad,
you're
in for it.'

CHAPTER THREE

IT had struck twelve o'clock two minutes and a quarter.
The Baron's footman hastily seized a large goblet, and gasped with terror as he filled it with hot, spiced wine.
`'Tis past the hour, 'tis past,' he groaned in anguish, `and surely I shall now get the red hot poker the Baron hath so often promised me, oh!
woe is me!
would that I had prepared the Baron's lunch before!'
and, without pausing a second he grasped in one hand the steaming goblet and flew along the lofty passages with the speed of a race horse.
In less time than we take to relate it he reached the Baron's apartment, opened the door, and—remained standing on tiptoe, not daring to move one way or the other, petrified with utter astonishment.
`Now then!
donkey!'
roared the Baron, `why stand you there staring your eyes out like a great toad in a fit of apoplexy?'
(the Baron was remarkably choice in his similes:) `what's the matter with you?
speak out!
can't you?'

The unfortunate domestic made a desperate effort to speak, and managed at length to get out the words `Noble Sir!'
`Very good!
that's a very good beginning!'
said the Baron in a rather pacified tone for he liked being called "noble", `go ahead!
don't be all day about it!'
`Noble Sir!'
stammered the alarmed man, `where—where—ever—is—the stranger?'
`
Gone
!'
said the Baron sternly and emphatically, pointing unconsciously his thumb over his right shoulder, `gone!
he had other visits to pay, so he
condescended
to go and pay them—but where's my wine?
he abruptly asked, and his attendant was only too glad to place the goblet in his hands, and get out of the room.

The Baron drained the goblet at a draught, and then walked to the window: his late victim was no longer to be seen, but the Baron, gazing on the spot where he had fallen muttered to himself with a stern smile, `Methinks I see a dint in the ground.'
At that moment a mysterious looking figure passed by, and the Baron, as he looked after him, could not help thinking `I wonder who that is!'
Long time he gazed after his retreating footsteps, and still the only thought which rose to his mind was `I do wonder who that is!'

CHAPTER FOUR

DOWN went the western sun, and darkness was already stealing over the earth when for the second time that day the trumpet which hung at the Baron's gate was blown.
Once more did the weary domestic ascend to his master's apartment, but this time it was a stranger whom he ushered in, `Mr Milton Smith!'
The Baron hastily rose from his seat at the unwonted name, and advanced to meet his visitor.

`Greetings fair, noble sir,' commenced the illustrious visitor, in a pompous tone and with a toss of the head, `it betided me to hear of your name and abode, and I made high resolve to visit and behold you ere night!'
`Well, fair sir, I hope you are satisfied with the sight,' interrupted the Baron, wishing to cut short a conversation he neither understood nor liked.
`It rejoiceth me,' was the reply, `nay, so much so that I could wish to prolong the pleasure, for there is a Life and Truth in those tones which recall to me scenes of earlier days—' `Does it indeed?'
said the Baron, considerably puzzled.
`Ay soothly,' returned the other; `and now I bethink me,' walking to the window, `it was the country likewise I did desire to look upon; 'tis fine, is't not?'
`It's a very fine country,' replied the Baron, adding internally, `and I wish you were well out of it!'

The stranger stood some minutes gazing out of the window, and then said, suddenly turning to the Baron, `You must know, fair sir, that I am a poet!'
`Really?'
replied he, `and pray what's that?'
Mr Milton Smith made no reply, but continued his observations, `Perceive you, mine host, the enthusiastic halo which encircles you tranquil mead?'
`The quickset hedge, you mean,' remarked the Baron rather contemptuously, as he walked up to the window.
`My mind,' continued his guest, `feels alway a bounding—and a longing—for—what is True and Fair in Nature, and—and—see you not the gorgeous rusticity—I mean sublimity, which is wafted over, and as it were intermingled with the verdure—that is, you know, the grass?'
`Intermingled with the grass?
oh!
you mean the butter-cups?'
said the other, `yes, they've a very pretty effect.'
`Pardon me,' replied Mr Milton Smith, `I meant not that, but—but I could almost poetise thereon!

`
Lovely meadow, thou whose fragrance

Beams beneath the azure sky
,

`Where repose the lowly—' `Vagrants,' suggested the Baron: `Vagrants!'
repeated the poet, staring with astonishment, `Yes, vagrants, gipsies you know,' coolly replied his host, `there are very often some sleeping down in the meadow.'
The inspired one shrugged his shoulders, and went on

`Where repose the lowly violets', `Violets doesn't rhyme half as well as vagrants,' argued the Baron.
`Can't help that,' was the reply:

`Murmuring gently'—`oh my eye!'
said the Baron, finishing the line for him, `so there's one stanza done, and now I must wish you good night; you're welcome to a bed, so, when you've done poetising, ring the bell, and the servant will show you where to sleep.'
`Thanks,' replied the poet, as the Baron left the room.

`Murmuring gently with a sigh—Ah!
that's
all right,' he continued when the door was shut, and leaning out of the window he gave a low whistle.
The mysterious figure in a cloak immediately emerged from the bushes, and said in a whisper, `All right?'
`
All right
,' returned the poet, `I've sent the old covey to sleep with some poetry, by the bye I nearly forgot that stanza you taught me, I got into
such
a fix!
However the coast is clear now, so look sharp.'
The figure then produced a rope ladder from under his cloak, which the poet proceeded to draw up.