The Enchanted Typewriter

THE BOSWELL TOURS:  PERSONALLY CONDUCTED

It was and will no doubt be considered, even by those who are not too friendly towards myself, a daring idea, and it was all my own.  One night, several weeks after the interview with Boswell just narrated, the idea came to me simultaneously with the first tapping of the keys for the evening upon the Enchanted Type-Writer.  It was Boswell’s touch that summoned me from my divan.  My family were on the eve of departure for a month’s rest from care and play in the mountains, and I was looking forward to a period of very great loneliness.  But as Boswell materialized and began his work upon the machine, the great idea flashed across my mind, and I resolved to “play it” for all it was worth.

“Jim,” said I, as I approached the vacant chair in which he sat—­for by this time the great biographer and I had got upon terms of familiarity—­“Jim,” said I, “I’ve got a very gloomy prospect ahead of me.”

“Well, why not?” he tapped off.  “Where do you expect to have your gloomy prospects?  They can’t very well be behind you.”

“Humph!” said I.  “You are facetious this evening.”

“Not at all,” he replied.  “I have been spending the day with my old-time boss, Samuel Johnson, and I am so saturated with purism that I hardly know where I am.  From the Johnsonian point of view you have expressed yourself ill—­”

“Well, I am ill,” I retorted.  “I don’t know how far you are acquainted with home life, but I do know that there is no greater homesickness in the world than that of the man who is sick of home.”

“I am not an imitator,” said Boswell, “but I must imitate you to the extent of saying humph!  I quote you, and, doing so, I honor you.  But really, I never thought you could be sick of home, as you put it—­you who are so happy at home and who so wildly hate being away from home.”

“I’m not surprised at that, my dear Boswell,” said I.  “But you are, of course, familiar with the phrase ’Stone walls do not a prison make?’”

“I’ve heard it,” said Boswell.

“Well, there’s another equally valid phrase which I have not yet heard expressed by another, and it is this:  ’Stone walls do not a home make.’”

“It isn’t very musical, is it?” said he.

“Not very,” I answered, “but we don’t all live magazine lives, do we?  We have occasionally a sentiment, a feeling, out of which we do not try ‘to make copy.’  It is undoubtedly a truth which I have not yet seen voiced by any modern poet of my acquaintance, not even by the dead-baby poets, that home is not always preferable to some other things.  At any rate, it is my feeling, and is shortly to represent my condition.  My home, you know.  It has its walls and its pictures, and its thousand and one comforts, and its associations, but when my wife and my children are away, and the four walls do not re-echo the voices of the children, and my library lacks the presence of madame, it ceases truly to be home, and if I’ve got to stay here during the month of August alone I must have diversion, else I shall find myself as badly off as the butterfly man, to whom a vaudeville exhibition is the greatest joy in life.”

“I think you are queer,” said Boswell.

“Well, I am not,” said I.  “However low we may set the standard of man, Mr. B.”—­and I called him Mr. B. instead of Jim, because I wished to be severe and yet retain the basis of familiarity—­ “however low we may set the standard of man, I think man as a rule prefers his home to the most seductive roof-garden life in existence.”

“Wherefore?” said he, coldly.

“Wherefore my home about to become unattractive through the absence of my boys and their mother, I shall need some extraordinary diversion to accomplish my happiness.  Now if you can come here, why can’t others?  Suppose to-night you dash off on the machine a lot of invitations to the pleasantest people in Hades to come up here with you and have an evening on earth, which isn’t all bad.”

“It’s a scheme and a half,” said Boswell, with more enthusiasm than I had expected.  “I’ll do it, only instead of trying to get these people to make a pilgrimage to your shrine, which I think they would decline to do—­Shakespeare, for instance, wouldn’t give a tuppence to inspect your birthplace as you have inspected his—­I’ll institute a series of ’Boswell’s Personally Conducted Pleasure Parties,’ and make you my agent here.  That, you see, will naturally make your home our headquarters, and I think the scheme would work a charm, because there are a great many well-known Stygians who are curious to revisit the scenes of their earlier state, but who are timid about coming on their own responsibility.”

“I see,” said I.  “Immortals are but mortal after all, with all the timidity and weaknesses of mortality.  But I agree to the proposition, and if you wish it I’ll prepare to give them a rousing old time.”

“And be sure to show them something characteristic,” said Boswell.

“I will,” I replied; “I may even get up a trolley-party for them.”

“I don’t know what a trolley-party is, but it sounds well,” said
Boswell, “and I’ll advertise the enterprise at once.  ’Boswell’s
Personally Conducted Pleasure Parties.  First Series, No. 1. 
Trolleying Through Hoboken.  For the Round Trip, Four Dollars. 
Supper and All Expenses Included.  No Tips.  Extra Lady’s Ticket,
One Dollar.’”

“Hold on!” I cried.  “That can’t be.  These affairs will really have to be stag-parties—­with my wife away, you know.”

“Not if we secure a suitable chaperon,” said Boswell.

“Anyhow!” said I, with great positiveness.  “You don’t suppose that in the absence of my family I’m going to have my neighbors see me cavorting about the country on a trolley-car full of queens and duchesses and other females of all ages?  Not a bit of it, my dear James.  I’m not a strictly conventional person, but there are some points between which I draw lines.  I’ve got to live on this earth for a little while yet, and until I leave it I must be guided more or less in what I do by what the world approves or disapproves.”

“Very well,” Boswell answered.  “I suppose you are right, but in the autumn, when your family has returned—­”

“We can discuss the matter again,” said I, resolved to put off the question for as long a time as I could, for I candidly confess that I had no wish to make myself responsible for the welfare of such Stygian ladies as might avail themselves of the opportunity to go off on one of Boswell’s tours.  “Show the value and beauties of your plan to the influential men of Hades first, my dear Boswell,” I added, “and then if they choose they can come again and bring their wives with them on their own responsibility.”

“I fancy that is the best plan, but we ought to have some variety in these tours,” he replied.  “A trolley-party, however successful, would not make a great season for an entertainment bureau, would it?”

“No, indeed,” said I.  “You are perfectly right about that.  What you want is one function a week during the summer season.  Open with the trolley-party as No. 1 of your first series.  Follow this with ’An Evening of Vaudeville:  The Grand Tour of the Roof Gardens.’  After that have a ’Sunday at the Sea-side—­Surf Bathing, Summer Girls and Sand.’  That would make a mighty attractive line for your advertisement.”

“Magnificent.  I don’t see why you don’t give up poetry and magazine work and get a position as poster-writer for a circus.  You are only a mediocre magazinist, but in the poster business you’d be a genius.”

This was tapped off with such manifest sincerity that I could not take offence, so I thanked him and resumed.

“The grand finale of your first series might be ’A Tandem Scorch:  A Century Run on a Bicycle Built for Two Hundred!’”

“Magnificent!” cried Boswell, with such enthusiasm that I feared he would smash the machine.  “I’ll devote a whole page of my Sunday issue to the prospectus—­but, to return to the woman question, we ought really to have something to announce for them.  Hades hath no fury like a woman scorned, and I can’t afford to scorn the sex.  You needn’t have anything to do with them if you don’t want to—­only tell me something I can announce, and I’ll make Henry the Eighth solid again by putting that branch of the enterprise in his wives’ hands.  In that way I’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

“That’s all very well, Boswell, but I’m afraid I can’t,” said I.  “It’s hard enough to know how to please a mortal woman without attempting to get up a series of picnics for the rather miscellaneous assortment of ladies who form your social structure below.  All men are alike, and man’s pleasures in all times have been generally the same, but every woman is unique.  I never knew two who were alike, and if it’s all the same to you I’d rather you left me out of your ladies’ tours altogether.  Of course I know that even the Queen of Sheba would enjoy a visit to a Monday sale at one of our big department stores, and I am quite as well aware that nine out of ten women in Hades or out of it would enjoy the millinery exhibition at the opera matinee—­and if these two ideas impress you at all you are welcome to them—­but beyond this I have nothing to suggest.”

“Well, I’m sure those two ideas are worth a great deal,” returned Boswell, making a note of them; “I shall announce four trips to Monday sales—­”

“Call ’em ‘To Bargaindale and Back:  The Great Marked-down Tour,’ and be sure you add, ’For Able-bodied Women Only.  No Tickets Issued Except on Recommendation of your Family Physician.’  This is especially important, for next to a war or a football match there’s nothing that I know of that is quite so dangerous to the participants as a bargain day.”

“I’ll bear what you say in mind,” quoth Boswell, and he made a note of my injunction.  “And immediately upon my return to Hades I will request an audience with Henry’s queens, and ask them to devise a number of other tours likely to prove profitable and popular.”

Shortly after my visitor departed and I retired.  The next day my family deserted me and went to the mountains, and all my fears as to the inordinate sense of loneliness which was to be my lot were realized.  Even Boswell neglected me apparently for a week.  I went to my desk daily and returned at night hoping that my type-writer would bring forth something of an interesting nature, but naught other than disappointment awaited me.  For a whole blessed week I was thrown back upon the society of my neighbors for diversion.  The type-writer gave no sign of being.

Little did I guess that Boswell was busy working up my scheme in his Stygian home!

But it came to pass finally that I was roused up.  Walking one morning to my desk to find a bit of memoranda I needed, I discovered a type-written slip marked, “No time for small talk.  Boswell’s tours grand success.  Trolley-party to-night.  Ten cars wanted.  Jim.”

It was a large order for a town like mine, where forty thousand people have to get along with five cars—­two open ones for winter and two closed for summer, and one, which we have never seen, which is kept for use in the repair-shop.  I was in despair.  Ten car-loads of immortals coming to my house for a trolley-party under such conditions!  It was frightful!  I did the best I could, however.

I ordered one trolley-car to be ready at eight, and a large variety of good things edible and drinkable, the latter to be held subject to the demand-notes of our guests.

As may be imagined, I did little real work that day, and when I returned home at night I was on tenter-hooks lest something should go wrong; but fortunately Boswell himself came early and relieved me of my worry—­in fact, he was at the machine when I entered the house.

“Well,” he said, “have you the ten cars?”

“What do you take me for,” said I, “a trolley-car trust?  Of course I haven’t.  There are only five cars in town, one of which is kept in the repair-shop for effect.  I’ve hired one.”

“Humph!” he cried.  “What will the kings do?”

“Kings!” I cried.  “What kings?”

“I have nine kings and one car-load of common souls besides for this affair,” he explained.  “Each king wants a special car.”

“Kings be jiggered!” said I.  “A trolley-party, my much beloved James, is an essentially democratic institution, and private cars are not de rigueur.  If your kings choose to come, let ’em hang on by the straps.”

“But I’ve charged ’em extra!” cried Boswell.

“That’s all right,” said I, “they receive extra.  They have the ride plus the straps, with the privilege of standing out on the platform and ringing the gong if they want to.  The great thing about the trolley-party is that there’s no private car business about it.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Boswell murmured, reflectively.  “If Charles the First and Louis Fourteenth don’t kick about being crowded in with all the rest, I can stand anything that Frederick the Great or Nero might say; but those two fellows are great sticklers for the royal prerogative.”

“There isn’t any such thing as royal prerogative on a trolley-car,” I retorted, “and if they don’t like what they get they can sit down in the waiting-room and wait until we get back.”

But Boswell’s fears were not realized.  Charles and Louis were perfectly delighted with the trolley-party, and long before we reached home the former had rung up the fare-register to its full capacity, while the latter, a half-a-dozen times, delightedly occupied himself in mastering the intricacies of the overhead wire.  The trolley-party was an undoubted success.  The same remains to be said of the vaudeville expedition of the following week.  The same guests and potentates attended this, to the number of twenty, and the Boswell tours were accounted a great enterprise, and bade fair to redeem the losses of the eminent journalist incurred during Xanthippe’s administration of his affairs; but after the bicycle night I had to withdraw from the combination to save my reputation.  The fact upon which I had not counted was that my neighbors began to think me insane.  I had failed to remember that none of these visiting spirits was visible to us in this material world, and while my fellow-townsmen were disposed to lay up my hiring of a special trolley-car for my own private and particular use against the eccentricity of genius, they marvelled greatly that I should purchase twenty of the best seats at a vaudeville show seemingly for my own exclusive use.  When, besides this, they saw me start off apparently alone on one tandem bicycle, followed by twenty-eight other empty wheels, which they could not know were manipulated by some of the most famous legs in the history of the world, from Noah’s down to those of Henry Fielding the novelist, they began to regard me as something uncanny.

Nor can I blame them.  It seems to me that if I saw one man scorching along a road alone on a tandem bicycle chatting to an empty front-seat, I should think him queer, but if following in his wake I perceived twenty-eight other wheels, scorching up hill and down dale without any visible motive power, I should regard him as one who was in league with the devil himself.

Nevertheless, I judge from what Boswell has told me that I am regarded in Hades as a great benefactor of the people there, for having established a series of excursions from that world into this, a service which has done much to convince the Stygians that after all, if only by contrast, the life below has its redeeming features.