5
1
Overview
...with Illustrations.
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER ONE
The thing arose in this way.
"I know very well that no time nor place thinks itself romantic," said the judge one winter night as the three of us—himself, Doctor Robinson, and I—were coming into the former's study from the dining-room, where we had been discussing the "crimes of fiction," as Doctor Robinson expressed it. He had maintained that the product of no profession so unfitted people for life as that of the romantic littérateur.
"We live in a world," he said, dropping an easy chair before the crackling grate fire, "which moves according to law; there is no wild and weird romance here; everything has an explanation and will some day be explained—even human nature is not hap-hazard. Then what romance can there be in this humdrum of daily existence?"
"I agree," said the judge, drawing at a cigar, "that the world moves according to law, and that everything, as you say, has an explanation. I believe that thoroughly. But I say also that life is not humdrum, that in some of its phases it is marvelous and mysterious."
"You novelists," laughed the doctor—for the judge had twice appeared in book form—"have no regard for truth. You continents, nations, kings, and characters the like of which never did—never could exist."
"Very well," said the judge meditatively, "it isn't necessary, according to my notion of fiction, to do that; people as they are, are interesting enough.
"If I were younger," he continued, "there is one piece of work I should like to do. It is a case of life which came under my observation, and I know the facts. It is real life—no fiction in it, doctor; yet it is as strange in some ways as if Haggard, Doyle, Weyman, or some other of those English clinical fellows had written it. It's a long sory; but some night when we have time, I'll tell it." The judge walked to the other side of the, and taking some things out of a drawer, placed them on the table. "These are some of the traps that belong to the case."
There were an ordinary blue-covered blankbook; a roll of manuscript apparently; a bottle half full of chloroform (I could smell the stuff!); some morphine; a small, silver-mounted, glass-barreled instrument with a long sharp point; a letter; and some scraps of paper.
"A hypodermic needle," said the doctor examining the instrument.
"Yes," answered the judge. "Look at the book."
Its worn appearance could only have been the result of frequent reading and study, for there was little written therein. opened it, glanced at the top of the page and read:
"ARITHMETIC AND TIME.—Arithmetic is dealing in time as geometry is in space. Thus, counting is only giving different intervals of time to the units, as, 1—1—1—1—1—1—1. But instead of saying, 1—1—1—1—1—1—1, in order to know the number of time intervals, different names are given the units as they succeed, as 1—2—3—4—5—6—7. Arithmetic is, therefore, a dealing in time. Thus an experiment in time is one in arithmetic—the lowest form of the mathematical principle. With the bodily organism we can make such temporal—therefore arithmetical—experimentations."
"What does this mean?" I asked.
The judge smiled.
Other pages were headed "The Mathematical Principle in Life." "March 16th, 1881, Experiment 21, black rat-terrier." "The Organism and the Time Progress." "The Rhythm of Unconscious Expectation with food." I gave the book to Doctor Robinson, who, looking intently at it for a few minutes, resumed his seat by the fire and began to study its pages, while the judge kept a musing silence.
"Why," said the doctor after some minutes, "this book evidently belonged to a man of science."
"Exactly," answered the judge.
"But it's a mystery to me. I can't understand what the sentences mean; yet no man could have written them—they're too coherent for that."
"No, I do not think myself that he was insane; yet that is what some people said, after the whole thing became known."
"Judge," I protested, "you must give us this story now."
"It is too long to tell to-night."
"Too long!" exclaimed the doctor. "Come now, judge, it's only seven o'clock."
We settled ourselves in our armchairs; I filled my pipe, while the judge and the doctor relighted their cigars, nibbling the ends with renewed energy. The wind brushed about the house and piped down the large grate flue, while the fire popped and crackled and the shadows flickered the dimly lighted walls. The judge was a delightful talker, and I was glad to hear him on almost any subject. Here is the story he told us: . . .
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER ONE
The thing arose in this way.
"I know very well that no time nor place thinks itself romantic," said the judge one winter night as the three of us—himself, Doctor Robinson, and I—were coming into the former's study from the dining-room, where we had been discussing the "crimes of fiction," as Doctor Robinson expressed it. He had maintained that the product of no profession so unfitted people for life as that of the romantic littérateur.
"We live in a world," he said, dropping an easy chair before the crackling grate fire, "which moves according to law; there is no wild and weird romance here; everything has an explanation and will some day be explained—even human nature is not hap-hazard. Then what romance can there be in this humdrum of daily existence?"
"I agree," said the judge, drawing at a cigar, "that the world moves according to law, and that everything, as you say, has an explanation. I believe that thoroughly. But I say also that life is not humdrum, that in some of its phases it is marvelous and mysterious."
"You novelists," laughed the doctor—for the judge had twice appeared in book form—"have no regard for truth. You continents, nations, kings, and characters the like of which never did—never could exist."
"Very well," said the judge meditatively, "it isn't necessary, according to my notion of fiction, to do that; people as they are, are interesting enough.
"If I were younger," he continued, "there is one piece of work I should like to do. It is a case of life which came under my observation, and I know the facts. It is real life—no fiction in it, doctor; yet it is as strange in some ways as if Haggard, Doyle, Weyman, or some other of those English clinical fellows had written it. It's a long sory; but some night when we have time, I'll tell it." The judge walked to the other side of the, and taking some things out of a drawer, placed them on the table. "These are some of the traps that belong to the case."
There were an ordinary blue-covered blankbook; a roll of manuscript apparently; a bottle half full of chloroform (I could smell the stuff!); some morphine; a small, silver-mounted, glass-barreled instrument with a long sharp point; a letter; and some scraps of paper.
"A hypodermic needle," said the doctor examining the instrument.
"Yes," answered the judge. "Look at the book."
Its worn appearance could only have been the result of frequent reading and study, for there was little written therein. opened it, glanced at the top of the page and read:
"ARITHMETIC AND TIME.—Arithmetic is dealing in time as geometry is in space. Thus, counting is only giving different intervals of time to the units, as, 1—1—1—1—1—1—1. But instead of saying, 1—1—1—1—1—1—1, in order to know the number of time intervals, different names are given the units as they succeed, as 1—2—3—4—5—6—7. Arithmetic is, therefore, a dealing in time. Thus an experiment in time is one in arithmetic—the lowest form of the mathematical principle. With the bodily organism we can make such temporal—therefore arithmetical—experimentations."
"What does this mean?" I asked.
The judge smiled.
Other pages were headed "The Mathematical Principle in Life." "March 16th, 1881, Experiment 21, black rat-terrier." "The Organism and the Time Progress." "The Rhythm of Unconscious Expectation with food." I gave the book to Doctor Robinson, who, looking intently at it for a few minutes, resumed his seat by the fire and began to study its pages, while the judge kept a musing silence.
"Why," said the doctor after some minutes, "this book evidently belonged to a man of science."
"Exactly," answered the judge.
"But it's a mystery to me. I can't understand what the sentences mean; yet no man could have written them—they're too coherent for that."
"No, I do not think myself that he was insane; yet that is what some people said, after the whole thing became known."
"Judge," I protested, "you must give us this story now."
"It is too long to tell to-night."
"Too long!" exclaimed the doctor. "Come now, judge, it's only seven o'clock."
We settled ourselves in our armchairs; I filled my pipe, while the judge and the doctor relighted their cigars, nibbling the ends with renewed energy. The wind brushed about the house and piped down the large grate flue, while the fire popped and crackled and the shadows flickered the dimly lighted walls. The judge was a delightful talker, and I was glad to hear him on almost any subject. Here is the story he told us: . . .
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940014817028 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | OGB |
| Publication date: | 08/08/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 294 KB |
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