I just finished reading Jane Loudon’s The Mummy!: A Tale of the Twenty-Second Century, a three-volume novel from 1827. I’m fascinated by early science fiction, and the title was irresistible. Turns out the plot is mostly romance — everyone is in love with the wrong people until the very end — and the titular Pharaoh Cheops makes disappointingly few appearances after his electrical reanimation — but the book contains enough futuristic stuff that it’s not totally unrewarding. Here’s a selection of The Mummy! ’s science-fiction bits: consider this a movie trailer aimed at sci-fi fans, with the understanding that (as usual) almost all the good bits are in the trailer, and the trailer is far better than the movie.

Agriculture has been revolutionized by science (I, 2):

“It is a fine evening,” said Davis, bowing low, “and if your honour pleases, I think we had better get the patent steam-mowing apparatus in motion to-morrow. If the sun should be as hot to-morrow as it has been to-day, I am sure the hay will make without using the burning glass at all. […] And does not your honour think I had better give the barley a little rain? It may be done immediately, for I saw a nice black heavy-looking cloud sailing by just now, and I can get the electrical machine out in five minutes to draw it down, if your honour thinks fit.”

Spectators at a royal procession are involved in a horrible air disaster (I, 11):

The throng of balloons became every instant more dense. Some young city apprentices having hired each a pair of wings for the day, and not exactly knowing how to manage them, a dreadful tumult ensued; and the balloons became entangled with the winged heroes and each other in inextricable confusion.

The noise now became tremendous; the conductors of the balloons swearing at each other the most refined oaths, and the ladies screaming in concert. Several balloons were rent in the scuffle and fell with tremendous force upon the earth; whilst some cars were torn from their supporting ropes, and others roughly overset. Luckily, however, the whole of England was at this time so completely excavated, that falling upon the surface of the earth was like tumbling upon the parchment of an immense drum, and consequently only a deep hollow sound was returned as cargo after cargo of the demolished balloons struck upon it; some of them, indeed, rebounded several yards with the violence of the shock.

After Edric and Dr. Entwerfen spend much of Volume II bouncing from one dismal foreign prison to another, we discover that in England, prison reform has been effected to a sumptuous degree (III, 3):

The prison to which Ferdinand and Lord Edmund had been conveyed was situated in a close disagreeable part of the city of London, called Kensington. It had been formerly a palace, and had been surrounded by a noble park miscalled a garden. The devastating hand of improvement had however, as usual, waged war against all the sublimer charms of nature, and the majestic beauties of Kensington fell victims to its fury. Narrow, unwholesome streets now rose where spreading oaks had once stretched forth their venerable arms, and verdant lawns had become dirty causeways; whilst ponds were turned to water pipes, and Jacob’s well kept clean a common sewer. As Ferdinand and Edmund, however, had never seen Kensington in its pristine glories, they could not now regret the change: and it was to them neither more nor less than a place of confinement, a spot very few people show any manifest relish for.

Immediately upon their arrival, Prince Ferdinand and Lord Edmund had their wounds dressed by the automaton steam surgeon belonging to the prison, which, being properly arranged and wound up, staunched the blood, spread the plaisters, and affixed the bandages with as much skill as though it had done nothing but walk a hospital all its life. […]

“Good Heavens!” cried Ferdinand, looking round with astonishment at the elegant apartment he was shown into, adorned with a painted velvet carpet, silk curtains, and chairs and tables inlaid with brass and ivory; whilst a sumptuous canopy hung over a bed of down on one side, and divers little Cupids supported lights, held back curtains, and performed numerous other useful offices in different corners. “Can this be a prison? Neither Paris nor Vienna possess palaces half so splendid!”

The surprise of Ferdinand was natural, as he was still almost a stranger in England, and did not know that our happy island had been long blest with a race of people who thought prisons should be made agreeable residences, and had gone on improving them till they had ended in making them temples of luxury.

A little later in the same chapter, Edmund’s cousin Clara attempts to visit Ferdinand (whom she secretly adores) in prison. This chapter is chockablock with incidental worldbuilding, some of it — like the talking clock — thrillingly inventive. (Compare the “mike and ike” bit in Anthony Boucher’s “Q.U.R.” (1943).)

All now was dark, and they walked slowly on some paces without speaking, when four bright flashes from a neighbouring clock announced the completion of some hour, and the next instant the solemn deep-toned bell distinctly pronounced the word “one,” and then all again was silent.

[…] Suddenly, however, a bright meteor-like substance appeared at the edge of the horizon, and the friar, to his unspeakable transport, discovered it to be a patent night fire-stage balloon. He hailed it, and in a few moments it was hovering over their heads; the accommodation ladder was let down, and Clara and her companion having ascended to the car, the balloon again rapidly sailed along.

[…] Not another word was spoken till the balloon stopped and the passengers were set down: all still was dark, save a land-light that gleamed from the battlements of the prison, and showed a tall, clumsy-looking figure that marched with heavy, measured steps to and fro before the gates, whilst at a little distance lay a party of soldiers bivouacking. Clara shuddered as she looked at them, and hastily turning away, timidly approached the figure, and begged it to let her into the prison. It continued its march, but as it did not speak, she attempted to pass by it.

“No admittance,” said the figure, as she touched it, in trying to reach the door.

“I implore you,” cried Clara, wringing her hands in agony.

The figure did not reply, but continued its solemn tramp unmoved; its hollow steps falling heavily upon the ear at regular intervals. Driven to despair, Clara again endeavoured to rush past it; but she was again repulsed as the figure reiterated its monotonous “No admittance!” Clara threw herself upon her knees before it in agony.

“Clara! Clara dear!” cried Father Murphy, attempting to raise her, “you are certainly quite beside yourself; don’t you see it is an automaton? nothing can stop it but the proper check-string, and that is in that little guard house, round which you see the soldiers lying.”

“Then they can admit me,” cried Clara wildly, “they are men, and will surely listen to me!”

Press zero, Clara!

Finally, some comic relief in the courtroom (III, 4):

An automaton judge sat with great dignity upon a magnificent throne, looking, though a little heavy, quite as wise and sagacious as judges are wont to look. A real jury (that is, a jury of flesh and blood) was ranged upon one side of him, and some automaton counsel sate in front, their briefs lying upon the table before them, and having behind each a clerk ready to wind him up when he should be wanted to speak. In different parts of these counsel were holes, into which briefs being put they were gradually ground to pieces as the counsel were being wound up, till they came forth in words at the mouth: whilst the language in which the counsel pleaded, depended entirely upon the hole into which the brief was put, there being a different one for every possible tongue.

[…] At last all was still, and the attendant clerk began to wind up the counsel for the prince. Lord Maysworth watched the moment; but being afraid to trust his beloved brief into any hands but his own, unfortunately in his agitation, he popt it into the wrong hole, and when the counsel began to speak, he burst forth in French! Words are wanting to express Lord Maysworth’s unutterable consternation at this unfortunate accident.

“Stop! stop!” cried he, “Hush! hush! Can nobody stop him?” but the inexorable counsel would not stop:—for once wound up, and properly set in motion, not all the powers of Heaven and earth combined could stop him till he had fairly run down.

“What shall I do?” cried Lord Maysworth, in an agony of despair; “for, if the judge and jury don’t understand French, my fine oration will be utterly lost.”

“Oh, if that be all,” said the clerk, “your lordship need not distress yourself; for as soon as I found what was going on, I ran up to the judge and pulled out his lordship’s French stop!”

See also:

• “The Description of a New World, Called The Blazing-World (1666)” (2018-04-05)