My head, though it’s screwed, is loose, papa,
And you, when you’re screwed, are tight.
“You can’t possibly sing that to the ladies,” I said.
“No,” he answered; “I’ve kept the words a little too long, and the weather’s been hot. I’ll try another—a fervent and passionate one.”
“No, you won’t,” I said firmly, and jumped into the piano, which changed into the canoe again, and started away down the river.
“That’s the wrong ’bus!” the dean shrieked after me. He shrieked so loudly that he woke me. At least, he half woke me. I was so full of the idea that I was in the wrong ’bus that I got out. The canoe was in the middle of the river at the time. You will find an excellent edition of Plato’s “Phædo,” a copy of last week’s Review, and my nicest pipe at the bottom of the river in King’s. At any rate, you may go and dive for them if you like.
IV.
ON REFLECTION; TO WHICH IS ADDED THE STORY OF
THE TIN HEART.
I LIKE to watch those trees reflected in the water. They are so suggestive, by reason of their being reflected wrong way up. All objective, outside facts are as trees, and the mind of man is as a river, and he consequently reflects everything in an inverted way. That is the reason why, if I try to guess a coin and say heads, it is always tails. That is the reason why, if I go to get a spoon out of my plate-basket in the dark, I always take out thirteen successive forks before I find one. It explains nearly everything. Probably the correct way to dine is really to begin with the fruit and end with the oysters. Itinerant musicians should begin by making a collection and leave out the other part. Anything that can be done backwards is better done backwards. When I leave for a moment the presence of royalty I am always required to walk backwards. That shows that royalty, together with Her Privy Council, which is the collected wisdom of the nation, thinks that it is best to walk backwards. And so it is. It is not only happier and holier, but it is also more piquant. You can never tell until you’ve kicked it whether you have backed into a policeman or a lamp-post. New possibilities are open to you. Anything may happen, and generally does. So, too, in skating. A good skater told me that the only enjoyable method of progression is the outside edge backwards. “It makes you feel like a bird,” he said; “and I don’t believe you can get that sensation of flight any other way.” He simply seemed to float on the ice. You see, he was a good skater. At last he galumphed into a snow-heap, flew just like a bird for a few yards, then came down hard and hurt a lady. Look at these railway collisions, too. We all know what an awful thing a railway collision is: and how does it always happen? It happens from two trains wanting to go to the same spot and arriving there simultaneously. If both trains had respectively reversed their directions, no collision could have happened. A train should never be allowed to go anywhere, but only to back to the place whence it came. But, as I should like these pages to be of solid, material use to any young men who are really trying to lead the philosophical life, and are quite earnest in their desire to avoid the Scylla of action without falling into the Charybdis of thought, I will put my facts and deductions clearly and briefly. The facts are two:—
(1) That a tree is reflected in the water wrong way up.
(2) That the reflection of such a reflection would be right way up.