upright coffin on wheels. Gates opened a panel in it, and the two men got themselves inside. The panel closed up.
Dick and I watched the device closely, ready for any trick. All was deathly still.
‘I fear something has happened to Lemuel,’ said Dick. ‘He could never keep silence this long.’
I wrencht at the handle of the panel, but it was fast. An unearthly light seemed to stream from crevices and cracks about the door, increasingly bright. I applied my eye to a crack and peered in.
There was not a soul inside.
The light got brighter and brighter until, with a thunderclap, the entire machine fell to pieces about me. I was knocked flat by the Great Noise, and when I regained my feet, I was amazed to see Dr Jones standing alone amidst the wreckage.
‘Are you hurt, Dr Jones?’ asked Dick, scrambling to his feet.
‘No, I – No.’
‘But where is Mr Gates?’
‘It would seem,’ said Jones, looking about, ‘that he is blown into aeternity.’
We helped him back to the fireside, where, as I recall, he was strangely silent and morose all evening, and would not respond to no amount of badinage. He remained muffled in his cloak and refused to say a word.
That is all I know of the incident, Jerry. Hoping this account is of some good, I remain
Your affectionate
Timothy Scunthe
To Sir Timothy Scunthe, Bart.
Sept. 9
Dear Tim,
Rec’d your story and am truly amazed at the copiousness of your memory and notes. Surely you are more the man to pen a Reminiscence than I. You have captured nicely the flavour of the old Warthog’s speach, and I find your account exact in nearly every Particular.
Do give my regards to Dr Jones and pray him to send me some little item of interest to go in my Reminiscences. If it would not inconvenience him, I would like mightily to hear more of his Experience that strange evening. Eternally gratefull I remain
Your affectionate
Jeremy Botford
Postscript. How is it you say the Doctor has a wart upon the
right
side of his mouth? I have before me a miniature of him, shewing the wan plainly on the
left
.
Yours &c.,
Jer. Botford
To Jeremy Botford, Esq.
Sept. 14
Dear Jerry,
Business is pressing. This is only a brief billet to inform you that I have spoken to Dr J. and he has promised to send you something. ‘But I doubt (said he) that he will want to use it.’ Do you understand this? I confess I do not. More later from
Your affectionate
Timothy Scunthe
To Jeremy Botford, Esq.
Sept. 15
… I hope you will find it in you to pity its author. Do not, I beg you, judge me until you have read here the truth of my plight.
Having departed on December 10, 1762 from the yard of Crutchwood’s, I journeyed into the Future. Having made my jokes about the Twentieth Century, I lived to see them, tragically, become Real. I saw Art & Architecture decline to Nursery Toys, and Literature reduced to Babel. Morality vanished; Science pottered with household Enjines. The main buziness of the time seemed to be World-Wide War, or man-made Catastrophe. Whole cities full of people were ignited and cooked alive.
Betwixt the two wars, people drive about the countryside in great carriage-enjines, which poison the air with harmful vapours. These carriages have o’erlaid the cities with smoak, black and noxious. There is in the Twentieth Century neither Beauty nor Reason, nor any other Mark which sheweth Man more than a beast.
But enough of a sad sojourn to a dismal place. I was sickened by it to near the point of madness. I knew I had done Wrong in accompanying Mr Gates to his Land of Horrors, and so I devized a plan for cancelling my visit.
I came back to November 1762 and saw myself. I earnestly entreated myself not to attempt such a voyage – but the object of this entreaty was so intent on proving me a scoundrel and imposter than my arguments were in vain.
I had then but one chance left – to appear at the time and place in which my unsuspecting self was departing
Dick and I watched the device closely, ready for any trick. All was deathly still.
‘I fear something has happened to Lemuel,’ said Dick. ‘He could never keep silence this long.’
I wrencht at the handle of the panel, but it was fast. An unearthly light seemed to stream from crevices and cracks about the door, increasingly bright. I applied my eye to a crack and peered in.
There was not a soul inside.
The light got brighter and brighter until, with a thunderclap, the entire machine fell to pieces about me. I was knocked flat by the Great Noise, and when I regained my feet, I was amazed to see Dr Jones standing alone amidst the wreckage.
‘Are you hurt, Dr Jones?’ asked Dick, scrambling to his feet.
‘No, I – No.’
‘But where is Mr Gates?’
‘It would seem,’ said Jones, looking about, ‘that he is blown into aeternity.’
We helped him back to the fireside, where, as I recall, he was strangely silent and morose all evening, and would not respond to no amount of badinage. He remained muffled in his cloak and refused to say a word.
That is all I know of the incident, Jerry. Hoping this account is of some good, I remain
Your affectionate
Timothy Scunthe
To Sir Timothy Scunthe, Bart.
Sept. 9
Dear Tim,
Rec’d your story and am truly amazed at the copiousness of your memory and notes. Surely you are more the man to pen a Reminiscence than I. You have captured nicely the flavour of the old Warthog’s speach, and I find your account exact in nearly every Particular.
Do give my regards to Dr Jones and pray him to send me some little item of interest to go in my Reminiscences. If it would not inconvenience him, I would like mightily to hear more of his Experience that strange evening. Eternally gratefull I remain
Your affectionate
Jeremy Botford
Postscript. How is it you say the Doctor has a wart upon the
right
side of his mouth? I have before me a miniature of him, shewing the wan plainly on the
left
.
Yours &c.,
Jer. Botford
To Jeremy Botford, Esq.
Sept. 14
Dear Jerry,
Business is pressing. This is only a brief billet to inform you that I have spoken to Dr J. and he has promised to send you something. ‘But I doubt (said he) that he will want to use it.’ Do you understand this? I confess I do not. More later from
Your affectionate
Timothy Scunthe
To Jeremy Botford, Esq.
Sept. 15
… I hope you will find it in you to pity its author. Do not, I beg you, judge me until you have read here the truth of my plight.
Having departed on December 10, 1762 from the yard of Crutchwood’s, I journeyed into the Future. Having made my jokes about the Twentieth Century, I lived to see them, tragically, become Real. I saw Art & Architecture decline to Nursery Toys, and Literature reduced to Babel. Morality vanished; Science pottered with household Enjines. The main buziness of the time seemed to be World-Wide War, or man-made Catastrophe. Whole cities full of people were ignited and cooked alive.
Betwixt the two wars, people drive about the countryside in great carriage-enjines, which poison the air with harmful vapours. These carriages have o’erlaid the cities with smoak, black and noxious. There is in the Twentieth Century neither Beauty nor Reason, nor any other Mark which sheweth Man more than a beast.
But enough of a sad sojourn to a dismal place. I was sickened by it to near the point of madness. I knew I had done Wrong in accompanying Mr Gates to his Land of Horrors, and so I devized a plan for cancelling my visit.
I came back to November 1762 and saw myself. I earnestly entreated myself not to attempt such a voyage – but the object of this entreaty was so intent on proving me a scoundrel and imposter than my arguments were in vain.
I had then but one chance left – to appear at the time and place in which my unsuspecting self was departing
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