Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (254 page)

MACHEN:
OPENING THE DOOR

But
as
to
the
case
of
Secretan
Jones.
This
gentleman,
a
cleric
as
I
have
said,
but
seldom,
it
appeared,
exercising
his
sacred
office,
lived retired
in
a
misty,
1830-40
square
in
the
recesses
of
Canonbury.
He was
understood
to
be
engaged
in
some
kind
of
scholarly
research,
and was
a
well-known
figure
in
the
Reading
Room
of
the
British
Museum, and
looked
anything
between
fifty
and
sixty.
It
seems
probable
that
if he
had
been
content
with
that
achievement
he
might
have
disappeared
as
often
as
he
pleased,
and
nobody
would
have
troubled;
but one
night
as
he
sat
late
over
his
books
in
the
stillness
of
that
retired quarter,
a
motor-lorry
passed
along
a
road
not
far
from
Tollit
Square, breaking
the
silence
with
a
heavy
rumble
and
causing
a
tremor
of
the ground
that
penetrated
into
Secretan
Jones's
study.
A
teacup
and saucer
on
a
side-table
trembled
slightly,
and
Secretan
Jones's
attention was
taken
from
his
authorities
and
note-books.

This
was
in
February
or
March
of
1907,
and
the
motor
industry
was still
in
its
early
stages.
If
you
preferred
a
horse-bus,
there
were
plenty left
in
the
streets.
Motor
coaches
were
non-existent,
hansom
cabs
still jogged
and
jingled
on
their
cheerful
way;
and
there
were
very
few heavy
motor-vans
in
use.
But
to
Secretan
Jones,
disturbed
by
the
rattle of
his
cup
and
saucer,
a
vision
of
the
future,
highly
coloured,
was vouchsafed,
and
he
began
to
write
to
the
papers.
He
saw
the
London streets
almost
as
we
know
them
to-day;
streets
where
a
horse-vehicle would
be
almost
a
matter
to
show
one's
children
for
them
to
remember
in
their
old
age;
streets
in
which
a
great
procession
of
huge
omnibuses
carrying
fifty,
seventy,
a
hundred
people
was
continually
passing; streets
in
which
vans
and
trailers
loaded
far
beyond
the
capacity
of
any manageable
team
of
horses
would
make
the
ground
tremble
without ceasing.

The
retired
scholar,
with
the
happy
activity
which
does
sometimes, oddly
enough,
distinguish
the
fish
out
of
water,
went
on
and
spared nothing.
Newton
saw
the
apple
fall,
and
built
up
a
mathematical
universe;
Jones
heard
the
teacup
rattle,
and
laid
the
universe
of
London in
ruins.
He
pointed
out
that
neither
the
roadways
nor
the
houses beside
them
were
constructed
to
withstand
the
weight
and
vibration of
the
coming
traffic.
He
crumbled
all
the
shops
in
Oxford
Street
and Piccadilly
into
dust;
he
cracked
the
dome
of
St.
Paul's,
brought
down Westminster
Abbey,
reduced
the
Law
Courts
to
a
fine
powder.
What was
left
was
dealt
with
by
fire,
flood
and
pestilence.
The
prophetic

Jones
demonstrated
that
the
roads
must
collapse,
involving
the
various services
beneath
them.
Here,
the
water-mains
and
the
main
drainage would
flood
the
streets;
there,
huge
volumes
of
gas
would
escape,
and electric
wires
fuse;
the
earth
would
be
rent
with
explosions,
and
the myriad
streets
of
London
would
go
up
in
a
great
flame
of
fire.
Nobody really
believed
that
it
would
happen,
but
it
made
good
reading,
and
Secretan
Jones
gave
interviews,
started
discussions,
and
enjoyed
himself
thoroughly.
Thus
he
became
the
"Canonbury
Clergyman."
"Can-onbury
Clergyman
says
that
Catastrophe
is
Inevitable";
"Doom
of London
pronounced
by
Canonbury
Clergyman";
"Canonbury
Clergyman's
Forecast:
London
a
Carnival
of
Flood,
Fire
and
Earthquake"— that
sort
of
thing.