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ON THE BRIDGE!

(A MUCH MODERNISED VERSION OF “THE VISION OF MIRZAH.")

On the second day of the week, commonly called Saint Monday (which according to the Customs of my Forefathers, I always keep as Holiday), after having washed myself, and offered up my Morning Devotions at the shrine of Nicotine, I turned over the pages of Bradshaw, with a view to passing the rest of the day in some more or less Rural Retirement.

As I was here confusing myself with the multitudinous Complexities of this recondite Tome, I fell into a profound Contemplation of the Vanity of human Holiday-making; and, passing from one puzzling page to another, Surely, said I, Man is but a Muddler and Life a Maze!

“Right you are!” sounded a mysterious voice in my ear.

The Sound of the voice was exceeding Sweet, and wrought into a variety of inflections.  It put me in mind of those heavenly Airs that are played from the tops of closely-packed wheeled Vehicles, from many-keyed Concertinas upon Bank-Holidays.  My Heart melted away in Secret Raptures.  By which signs I—­who had read my Spectator at the Free Library—­knew well that I was in the company of a Genius!  It is only Genii who drop upon one suddenly and unannounced, with a more or less pertinent commentary upon one’s Inner Thoughts, in this fashion.  I felt at once that I was in for the true Addisonian Oriental Apologue in all its hybrid incongruity.

I drew near with that Reverence which is due to a Superior—­if nondescript Nature; and as my Heart was entirely subdued by the captivating Voice I had heard, I fell down at his Feet and wept.  I could hardly have explained why, but ’tis the sort of thing one always does in an Eastern Apologue.  The Genius smiled upon me with a Look of Compassion and Affability that familiarised him to my Imagination, at once dispelled all the Fears and Apprehensions with which I approached him, and turned off my Tearfulness “at the main,” as Samuel Weller said, concerning the Mulberry One.  He lifted me from the ground, and, taking me by the hand, “MIRZAH,” said he, “I have heard thee in thy Soliloquies; follow me!”

Now, my name is not MIRZAH, but MATTHEW.  Yet, after all, it did not much matter, and I felt it would be in questionable taste to correct a Genius.

He then led me to the highest Pinnacle of a Rock, and, placing me on the Top of it, “Cast thy Eyes yonder,” said he, “and tell me what thou seest.”  “I see,” said I, “a huge Valley, and a prodigious Roadway running through it.”  “The Valley that thou seest,” said he, “is the Vale of Travel, and the Roadway that thou beholdest is part of the great Railway System.”  “What is the Reason,” said I, “that the Roadway I see rises out of a thick Mist at one End, and again loses itself in a thick Mist at the other?” “Monopoly and Muddle freely engender Mists,” responded the Genius.  “Examine now,” said he, “the Roadway that is bounded with Darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.”  “I see a Bridge,” said I, “standing in the midst of the Roadway.”  “Consider it attentively,” said he.