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Old 12-04-2018, 02:28 AM   #1
The future is unwritten
Join Date: Oct 2002
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Reading Material

This could be in current events, politics, or philosophy...

The following story, “Nightmare Bridge,” was written by Glanville Maidstone and published in 1910.

I knew in my dream that I was lost. Weary and cold, with aching feet and heavy eyes, I plodded along that silent and solitary thoroughfare of a great city. The vista seemed endless; the winking lamps stretched on as far as one could see. Far as I walked I had met no one, not even a policeman. Stay! There is a constable standing in the shadow of a gateway. I stop before him; I ask him whither does this road lead. He looks at me with strange eyes; he does not speak, he whispers: “To the bridge.” He is very pale, the constable, and very lean. His face—his face is like a skull: it is a skull. No; but how hollow are his eyes! How sharp and prominent are his cheekbones! And as I turn away he laughs. His laugh puts fear into my heart. I turn cold with fear.

I try to walk rapidly away from him, but my feet are like lead. And he follows me. I hear the sound of his feet, and the echo of his measured step comes back from the dark and silent houses. Will this road never end? Do those glimmering lamp-lights stretch on, an avenue of stars, to the edge of the world? Where is this bridge? Why did he call it the Bridge? I tramp on, the constable following without a word. Then—then I see the Bridge. I am on the Bridge. It is a wide bridge, brilliantly lighted, exquisitely paved. There is a broad footpath on either side, and lines of gilded railings. Overhead stretch festoons of beautiful flowers. The road is used by motor cars and handsome equipages drawn by noble horses. In the carriages and cars are men and women dressed luxuriantly. I can see the sparkle of gems and hear the sound of conversation—conversation gay and witty, carried on in high-pitched aristocratic voices. The traffic in the roadway is not dense: there is ample room. On the footpaths there are but few people; they are the counterparts of those in the carriages: men and women, handsomely dressed lounging easily, laughing and talking: a picture of wealth and happiness.

Outside the railings?—outside the railings it is dark. There seems to be partly visible through the shadowy obscurity a moving crowd, a dense traffic. There is a great deal of noise: the noise of tramping horses, heavy wheels, cracking whips; the noise of angry voices, or curses, sobs, and groans. What goes on there in the semi-darkness? Is it a riot? Is it a battle? Hark! a scream!
What bridge is this, then? What does it span: a river? I look for the terrible constable. He is at my side. He shrugs his shoulders and says, in his horrid whisper: “You do well to choose the middle of the Bridge. You would not enjoy the outer roads.
I know: I used to be among it.”
“What does it mean?” I asked. “What is it? Let us go there, where the noise is. Let us go and see. Come, come, come; let us go to the side of the road, where the crowd is.”
“Come,” said the constable, “I don’t care. I’m safe enough—unless I lose my feet or my head.”
“Lose your feet? What do you mean?” I asked.
“Come and see,” says the constable, with a grim smile. “If a man goes down in that crush he gets no quarter: not from them.”
“From whom?”
“From his fellow creatures.” The constable leads me back towards the entrance to the bridge. “If you fall,” he says, “do you know what they will do to you?”
“Tell me,” I ask him.
“Well,” he says, “you be careful. If you fall they will kick you; they will trample on you; they will hustle you over the edge, into the river.”

We are on the Bridge—on the outer road. What dense traffic! what a terrible crowd! There is not room. There are no footways, and the heavy traffic is mixed with the struggling pedestrians. On the outer side, next the river, there is no parapet. The people fight frantically to keep away from that edge. But they cannot. Hark! another scream! “What is that?”
“Another one gone over,” says the constable, “a woman. She’s too old and weak to fight. Many of the weak ones go: men and women, and children, too—very many children.”
In appearance this crowd resembles an ordinary London crowd—of poor people. The crush is so severe that at every few yards distance we see groups fighting—fighting like animals—fighting as I have seen women and men fighting round the tram cars and the motor omnibuses. And the constable spoke the truth. When a pedestrian—man or woman, yes, or child—goes down, the case is desperate. A girl falls close by us. Another woman kicks her, a man treads upon her; when she screams a second woman strikes her in the face. Then—oh, a huge wagon laden with iron crashes through the crowd. A man is down—down under the wheels!

“In the name of Heaven,” I cry, turning to my sardonic guide, “what does this mean? Why do they not widen the Bridge? Why do they not put a parapet on the outer side?”
“No money,” says the constable. “Who’s to do it?”
“Do it!” I exclaim. “What kind of city is this? Is there no government—no authority?”
“Of course,” the constable answers. “This is a civilized country: a Christian country. Government? What are you thinking about?”
“Then,” I say, “tell me, who governs this city? Who is responsible for this bridge?”
The constable nods his head towards the wide and beautiful central roadway. “Those,” he answers; “those ladies and gentlemen, there.”
“But,” I cry, “those people take no heed. They are lounging, talking, trifling, laughing. Do they know that men and women are being crushed to death? Do they know that little children are being hurled into the river or crushed under foot? Why do they not stop these horrors? Why do they not widen the bridge?”
The constable shook his head. “I told you,” he said, “you would be better in the middle—seeing you’d had the luck to get there. They cannot widen the bridge, do you understand, outwards; they could only relieve the crush by throwing down the railings and throwing open the wide middle road. That’s the difficulty.”

“But,” I said, “in the presence of this awful crush and struggle, this terrible suffering and loss of life, surely they could do as you say! There is room on the bridge for all and to spare.”
“True,” the constable nodded. “But,” he said, “the middle way is theirs, do you see? Naturally they will not give up any of their room; that is why they have put up those gilded railings. There are very few can climb those railings.”
“But the crowd,” I said, “will the crowd endure this? They are so many. They could pull the railings down.”
“They are very strong,” said the constable.
“If they are made of steel—” I began.
“Steel?” The constable laughed his horrible laugh. “They are made of something stronger than steel,” he said.
“Of what are they made?” I asked.
“Of lies,” said the constable, and kicked a fallen man out of his way.
“But,” I cried, “Lies can be broken with truth. I will speak to the people. I will appeal to them for the sake of their women and children. I will give them the truth to break these lies.”
The constable shook his head. “Do nothing of the kind,” said he. “Go back to the middle way. You will hardly be heard in all this noise; and how can men listen or understand when they are fighting for dear life? They will pay no attention to you; or they may throw you down, and then they will trample on you. Go back to the middle way.”

“Then,” I said, “I will appeal to the ladies and gentlemen of the middle way. I will tell them what I have seen.”
“No use,” said the constable, “those people on the middle way like a lot of air and space; they like to be grand, and they like to be happy. They keep their eyes away from the side road, and talk beautifully about all kinds of noble ideas and pleasant things. But they’ll see you damned before they will give up an inch of their room. Try them. Nice, polite, refined, well-spoken ladies and gentlemen they are; but try to take a foot of their road, and you’ll think you have been thrown to the lions.”
“But,” I said, “it is horrible. It is infamous. These people are worse than savages. This city is a disgrace to humanity.”

“Steady, steady,” said the constable. “What city do you come from?”
“I? I come from London.”
The constable laid a bony hand on my shoulder. His pale face grew redder, his smile became more human, his baleful eyes twinkled humorously, and his whisper rose to a firm, deep voice. “Why,” he said, “London? Bless our two souls! London! Don’t I know London? Don’t I know that London is just exactly like this? Why, governor, this is London. What part is it you want to go to? Now then, wake up, mister; you must not sleep here.”
“Good heavens! Why—fancy my falling asleep in a railway station! In the refreshment bar—”
“Well,” said the constable, “the bars are closed, sure enough. Not,” he added, “but what there might be ways of getting something if you really feel the want of it, sir.”
And there were.
Everything is interesting... look closer.
xoxoxoBruce is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 12-04-2018, 07:49 AM   #2
still says videotape
Join Date: Feb 2001
Posts: 23,435
1929 was coming when he wrote this, should we blame Obama for keeping the road open?
If you would only recognize that life is hard, things would be so much easier for you.
- Louis D. Brandeis
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