The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 15/TQS
The Queer Side of Things.
OME time ago, amid the monotonous ether of space, long before the existence of planets and all that, two spirits were strolling along in company.
In aspect the two companions differed in the most pronounced way. On the brow of the one, who might have passed for the elder, appeared the cold and passionless calculation of science; the eye was deeply reflective, but unimpassioned; the demeanour was grave and deliberate. We may as well speak of this spirit henceforth as William.
The younger, whom we will call James, was of a very different stamp, for in him the quick and well opened eye, the mobile brow and mouth, and the eager, voice, denoted enthusiasm and enterprise.
As we have remarked, the scene was monotonous; it is easily described: stretching away and away for ever in every direction spread space and utter and intense darkness.
What wonder, then, that, surrounded by so dull and uninteresting a monotony, living through an indefinite period enlivened by no divisions of time, the soul of James should have cast about within itself for some recreative topic, some object on which to expend its imaginative energies. In truth James was a dreamer—a wild and fantastic dreamer, if you will. Sitting alone, perhaps, for an uninterrupted period of many cycles, he would follow with ever more hurrying mental footsteps the bewildering paths of inventive speculation. In the midst of that dull void he would conceive the existence of many things; he would fill space with entities, psychical and even material.
For many æons the fear of ridicule had deterred him from breathing a word or all these phantasies to his more severe and calculating companion; for to William's cold and precise reason, that which existed was all that ever could exist; and stern, philosophic argument had convinced him that space and darkness were everything which could ever possibly be designed or executed.
This was no grudging conservatism, nor prejudice against new things. No, he had worked the matter out in the light of pure reason and scientific argument, and he knew.
"William," said James, at length, impelled by an impulse which he could no longer restrain, yet with the detectable nervousness and hesitation of one who fears reproach or ridicule—"William, has it never crossed your mind that the surroundings of our existence are a little—that is, a trifle—monotonous and samey?"
He stopped suddenly, abashed, and fidgeted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as the keen eye of the other, wide with astonishment, was fixed upon him.
"I fear I do not catch your meaning, James," at length replied the wiser spirit.
James flushed uncomfortably; but he had committed himself too far for further hesitation. "Might there not exist," he went on, though still nervously, "something beyond mere space and darkness?"
"Something beyond?" repeated the sage, "certainly not: that is impossible. Space and darkness, as Science and Reason conclusively prove, are the only conditions which can ever possibly exist. What phantasy is this for which you hanker? Give details."
"Well—why could there not be worlds about?" asked James, bold in very desperation.
"Foolish boy!" replied the philosopher. "Do you think I have not often thought this thing out for myself? Were I to adduce the thousand and one scientific reasons which prove the impossibility of the existence of worlds, you could not follow me. Tell me, whence would you fetch your materials with which to manufacture these worlds?"
James was silent. "How many worlds would you like to have, in your foolishness?" asked the sage.
"Well," said James, humbly, "I was thinking of two—one of them all on fire, to give light to the other; and the other for working purposes."
"'Ah, just so.' said William, witheringly."
"Ah, just so," said William, witheringly. "Of course, it has never occurred to you that the two would dash together by mutual attraction and become one? How about that?"
"Well—I would I have a whole lot of them, to keep one another in position—"
"Ah," said William, "and they would all dash together at a common centre, however many you had."
"Hum—that is a bother," said James, disappointedly; "because I was going to put all manner of things on my worlds."
"As what?" asked the philosopher, with a crushing grin.
"Well, I thought of human beings among other things—when I say human beings I mean something alive and able to move about when supported on anything solid, such as a world; and endowed with a certain amount of reason, and able to express his thoughts, and subject to emotions and proclivities—mostly evil, of course, and—"
"Well now, look here," said William magnanimously, "let us suppose that you have got over all the insurmountable obstacles in the way of keeping your human beings alive; let us wildly take it for granted that they have not been crushed between your worlds, nor by the attraction of their own—that they can move upon its surface (which of course any attraction sufficient to keep them from tumbling off would inevitably prevent their doing)—that they are not shrivelled up by the heat generated by the friction of your large mass of material pressing towards its centre, not frozen, nor otherwise instantly destroyed (which they assuredly would be); let us suppose this initial absurdity, and go ahead. What do you intend your human beings to do? By the way, I pass over the sublime humour of anything having to be supported on something solid as a necessary condition of moving about! That is a peculiar sort of motion—but let that pass. Well?"
The sage took up an easy attitude with an air of resignation, and prepared to listen.
"Before you begin," said he parenthetically, "I can tell you in a word what your beings would do first—and last. They would fight and exterminate each other, and there would be an end of them."
"No," said James, "I believe they would increase in numbers and gradually become less savage, and begin to invent things—"
"Oh, they are to invent things as well as you. And I suppose the things they invented would invent other things, and so on?"
"No, they would invent inanimate objects, such as weapons."
"Oh yes," said William hastily, "I have no doubt they would invent weapons; that would help them to exterminate each other."
"They would fight and exterminate one another."
"Yes, of course they would invent weapons first; but, as they grew less savage—"
"Hum—inventing weapons is a peculiar mode of making oneself less savage!"
"Why, the weapons, as they became more deadly and efficient, would get so capable of exterminating them that they would prove the actual means of civilising and rendering them more humane—"
"What does 'humane' mean?"
"It is the same as human, that is, kind, sympathising, benevolent, mild, compassionate, tender, merciful."
"Oh, indeed!" said William; "pray go on."
"By degrees their relations one with another would become more polished and pleasant; a stranger would not necessarily be a foe—"
"Hold hard a moment," said the sage; "how many of these human beings do you propose to have in your world?—some dozens?"
"Many millions."
"Millions!! But are they all to be precisely alike, so that one could not be distinguished from another? If that were so, everything would be utter confusion."
"Of course. That would never do. Each must necessarily have his individuality."
"That would be somewhat difficult when it came to millions," said William. "Of course, while you confined yourself to dozens, one might be spherical, another cubical, a third triangular, a fourth oval, and so forth—"
"Bless your soul!" said James. "My human beings are not to be in the form of geometrical figures! Each would have a body, two legs, two arms, a head, so on."
"Varying the positions of the parts."
"Oh! I see; and you will differentiate between them by varying the positions of these parts—now placing the head at the end of one leg, now of the other; now putting the legs and arms at the four corners, and the head in the middle—and so forth."
"Not in the least. The positions of all parts would be relatively identical in all cases."
"Now, James, when you talk something distantly approaching reason, I can bear with you (by an effort); but if you are going to talk such childish nonsense as this, I must leave you. You speak of millions of individuals whose general conformation is practically unvaried; and yet each one is to be individually recognisable—how?"
"He would have to carry a document."
"Why—why, by minor peculiarities, I suppose—"
"'Minor peculiarities!' Then one of your beings would, on meeting another, have to institute a thorough and minute examination of him from end to end in order to discover one of these 'minor peculiarities' by which to identify him. He would hardly be able to remember the minor peculiarities of all the other millions of individuals, and would therefore have to carry a document whereon each of them was set down. Very practical! Now let us work it out: This scroll of his has to contain, let us say, ten million different signs, with the name of the owner attached. Perhaps you wil me how he is going to carry this scroll, which would certainly weigh some hundred-weights? Then, granting he could carry it, he is to sit down and wade through ten millions of signs in order to identify his friend or enemy. This would occupy a considerable time—let us say, moderately, five years."
The younger spirit looked crestfallen.
"I must admit you rather have me there!" he said ruefully. "I see there would be a difficulty about recognition. Perhaps there might be lists of identifying peculiarities set up at various points of the world, so that everybody could meet there, and—"
"Lists of identifying peculiarities set up."
"Pooh!" said William, "get on to some other absurdity. I can't see what, save fighting, you would give your creatures to do."
"Oh, they would have to gain their living—to provide for themselves."
"Food?"
"Yes, they could only keep alive by consuming periodically something which would nourish their frames."
"Whence would they obtain it?"
"From the material of which their world was made."
"Oh, I see—your beings would gradually increase in numbers, and at the same time eat away the world they were clinging to, until, in course of time, there would be no world left to cling to at all? But I suppose you would lengthen the thing out—they would only eat at intervals of an æon or so?"
"No; I was thinking of several times a day."
The sage burst into a loud laugh, which rolled away for ever through space.
"Eating would take up all their time."
"What? Creatures whose frames would begin to dwindle away unless they ate every few hours? Why, they would be able to think of nothing else! Eating would take up all their time! They would barely have leisure to kill one another between meals!"
"No, there's something in that," said poor James.
"Besides, you have invented beings possessing something like intelligence. Have you provided that intelligence simply to be used in eating?"
"Oh no; but—"
"Well, they certainly wouldn't have a chance of using it for any other purpose. Are they to live to eat?"
"Oh no—only to eat to live."
"As soon as they had used their intelligence in eating, what is the next thing they would turn it to?"
"To—er—well, I suppose to finding something for the next meal," said poor James, hopelessly.
"Precisely," said William. "You do not propose a very high standard of achievement for your beings! I presume all these inventions you talk about would have eating as their ultimate object? The best thing for them would be to invent something to render the necessity of eating less frequent; something which would do all the eating for them, and set them at liberty to attempt something else. What inventions were you thinking of?"
"Well the electric telegraph, for instance; an apparatus to enable persons to talk to others long distances off."
"But your people wouldn't have time to talk to those at hand even—they would have to eat. By the way, what do you do with your beings when they die?"
"They become part of the world they lived on."
"Oh! and the others eat them? Ah, very nice! I really begin to like your human beings. Their tastes are so pleasant! Go on."
"Well, as they progressed in civilisation they would make laws."
"What for?"
"To govern themselves by."
"Govern themselves by! But they could govern themselves without laws. What would they want laws for?"
"To prevent their doing wrong," said James.
"But if they were inclined to do right they would not need laws to keep them from doing wrong; while, if they were inclined to do wrong, they would not make such laws. Besides, the necessity of such laws seems to imply that the majority of your humans would have a leaning towards evil-doing?"
"Yes, that would be so."
"Then who would make, and enforce, those laws?"
"The better inclined minority."
"What horrid nonsense! The majority would not let them! No; obviously the majority would make the laws; and the majority being inclined towards evil, the laws would be for the propagation of evil-doing. If the majority of your humans were inclined to swindle their neighbours, the laws would be made in favour of swindlers."
Poor James hastily ran over a few of the laws he had conceived, and expressed a wish to change the conversation.
"Look here, my poor boy," said William, rising, "don't muddle your head with any more of these preposterous plans. Science and Reason utterly confute the possibility of such a world as you describe. To begin with, the world itself could not exist for five minutes; then your people couldn't live in it if it did; if they could live, they couldn't move; if they could live and move, they would not have a moment for anything but eating; they could not recognise or identify each other; and so on, and so on. The whole thing is a farrago of hopeless and impossible bosh, and couldn't hold water for a single instant. Science and Reason prove it!"
As the spirits ceased, we turned to our newspaper and read the following words:—
"The North American Review lately described the recent successful experiments carried on in the Far West of America to produce rain by explosives. The result was complete success. . . . This article was followed by a paper by Professor Newcombe, in which he demonstrates conclusively that it is absolutely impossible to make rain in any such way."
FOUND IN THE SNOW.
VERYONE has heard of the magnificent dogs of the St. Bernard monastery. The manner in which they are trained to search for snow-bound travellers has gained for them and the good monks, their teachers, such a world-wide fame that a few words of reference are all that are necessary to introduce the most interesting photograph from real life which we are here able to present. Whenever a snow-storm breaks upon the Alps the monks send forth their dogs in search of travellers, each animal carrying a flask of spirits suspended from its neck. Guided by the wondrous instinct with which they are endowed, and which has been intensified by assiduous and skilful training, they seldom fail in discovering any unfortunate wayfarer who has been overtaken by the tempest, or who has sunk upon the icy ground, worn out by fatigue and hardship, and succumbed to the death-sleep which results from intense cold. When the dog makes such a discovery it raises its voice in a deep and powerful bay, at the same time scraping away the snow from the traveller's body, even though it be buried under a deep snowdrift, and crouching with its body pressed against the sufferer's breast in order to bring back the natural heat and life. The monks, on hearing the dog's warning cry, immediately set off with aid.
MORIMOTO.
The inhabitants of Japan have a pronounced predilection for the grotesque. The most popular amusements are theatrical representations, the great achievements of the "artists" consisting in extraordinary contortions of the limbs and faces. Not only single "artists," but whole groups of them practise these contortions, and the one who can imitate best the grotesquely carved images is sure of a clamorous reception from the audience.
Amongst these "mimics" Morimoto has achieved the highest reputation. This man produces the most astounding effects with his facial contortions, as may be seen from the pictures given. He can raise his lips and chin above the tip of the nose, and bury his mouth in the folds of his cheeks. The pictures present him, first, in his natural appearance, then as the "god of riches," pleased, and disappointed, and as the "god Daruma."
The "god of riches" he presents in two characters. He carries a sack of gold on his back, stooping under its heavy weight, but still seeking for more treasures. He taps the soil with a hammer, and, if the sounds indicate that he has found gold, a bright expression of pleasure beams on his countenance, and a satisfaction of the deepest intensity sparkles in his eyes.
The third picture shows Morimoto again as the "god of riches," but this time he is disappointed; he has found no treasure. Shadows of deep sorrow overcast his face; the chin is raised over the tip of the nose, and suppressed malice lurks in the eyes.
But the height of Morimoto's art is reached in the fourth picture. The god Daruma lived in the sixth century. He is of Indian origin, came to Japan to preach Buddhism, he found many adherents, and is to this day the most popular household god. His old days he passed in the mountains as a recluse. He is generally represented without feet, having "worn them away" in his long and weary wanderings.
If Morimoto represents this mournful idol, he squats on the floor, covered from head to foot in a red cloth. The chin is raised over the tip of the nose, as in the third picture; but the mouth is buried in the severe folds of the cheeks, thus indicating the austere abstemiousness of the recluse, whilst his eyes stare into blank vacancy. Morimoto is a master of his art, who has no equal, even in Japan.
 I. |
 II. |
 III. |
 IV. |
 V. |
 VI. |
Mystification.
Investigation.
Explanation.
Policeman: "What are you doing there?"
Tramp: "Getting my hair cropped, Gratis!"
Such a jolly ride!
The start.The finish.